Rue
by Maya Sushi
Summary: His whole body hurt. He needed to start thinking, really thinking things through. The Truth must have had a reason for putting him here, and if they wanted to play this god damn game he would play it. For Alphonse. No matter how long it took.
1. Incunabula

_**Disclaimer: **_Neither do I own Harry Potter, or Fullmetal Alchemist. And even though I would much rather own the latter, I suppose it wouldn't be too bad to own HP. I mean, if I couldn't have Ed, I could at least have Daniel Radcliffe and Rupert Grint.

_**A/N: **_Okay, so here's the deal. I was all like, "No Maya! You are NOT allowed to post a chapter of this story until you finish _at least_ one of your other stories!" Since I have, you know, so freaking many and all. However, I tend to hardly ever listen to myself often – er, well, ever.

Anywho, this story came to life when I went through a strange two weeks in which I read just about every Harry Potter and Fullmetal Alchemist crossover that exists, and discovered that even though MOST of them are not very well written and all seem to be the same (which they really can't be blamed for that, I mean, if everyone seems to have the same general idea on how Edward would react to magical London, then the idea must hold some merit) there are a few very good ones. Which I will mention later on, I suppose, but not now, because I choose to put effort into only certain things. And that's not presently something I want to occupy myself with.

So, in the beginning I thought, "Well Maya, this'll be easy, cuz you'll just use this to write when you don't feel like working on the others." because I foolishly thought that it would be an easy, drabbly thing to go on about. But then as I was planning it, I realized that I was, in fact, _planning it_, and it was taking _days_ to do so. I also realized that nothing, really, is easy with me. I spent forever and a day trying to find some way in which Edward could actually, logically find himself in the Harry Potter world without using an idea that has been used before. Be it some of the seriously unique ones, or the more generic, or the "Amestris is a country on Earth" ones, (though I haven't heard of Amestris, have you? ;) ) I finally decided on something, after making pages of notes on why this crossover WOULDN'T work, and I think it's relatively alright. I got the idea when I decided that I definitely wanted to use manga Ed, because I'm not very partial to the first anime (though I still love it, don't get me wrong, I just love the manga/brotherhood more) and what's freaking cooler than Ed in the manga? Nothing, that's what. So, to end this decidedly long Author's Note, I guess I'm gonna post the first chapter. Oh, woe is me, I said I wouldn't do this... Oh well :P Might as well jump right into things.

(For the record though, I was writing the last chapter of Invective when I decided I was going to post this. So, I was _almost_ finished with one story.)

* * *

_**Rue**_

_**One**_

_**Incunabula**_

"Bloody hell..."Ron Weasley looked out through the steady rain at the limp form that lay on the entrance to Number Twelve Grimwauld Place.

_"We've found someone Mum!" _Fred – or George – had called out only minute before, apparating with a loud _crack_ into the room.

_"What do you mean you've **found someone**?"_ Sirius had questioned, looking at the two with curious dark eyes.

_"Outside," _one had began.

_"On the doorstep," _the other had continued, but had said nothing else. Ron and Hermione had simply looked to to the doorway as the twins pointed shakily in that very direction. Then, suddenly, everyone was moving.

Somehow, Ron had managed to make it to the door first, pulling the heavy wood aside and stepping hesitantly out into the night. He hardly remembered leaving his seat in the first place. He was pulling the heavy wood aside and stepping hesitantly out into the night without a second though, and there was a whispered _"Lumos" _from behind him and he could see what had been awaiting them...

_"Bloody Hell..." _Ron Weasley had said as he looked out through the steady rain at the limp form that lay on the entrance to Number Twelve Grimwauld Place.

"What do we do?" That was Tonks, the joyous, the care-free, confusion clear in her voice.

"I say we move him across the street," Moody, the paranoid and brave. Who held no reserve for care for some bleeding stranger on his doorstep. There was only stony resole in his tone.

"Don't be ridiculous Alastar!" Molly Weasley now, the motherly, the caring, who only saw the child in the form below them. She thought of her boys, "We can't leave him out here, he hardly looks any older than my boys."

There were so many boys, no one knew which age she was referring to.

"Remus, tell her its not a good idea," Moody was commanding, not asking. Lupin was the voice of reason, and most listened for him to make the consensus between them.

"I don't know Alastar... What if – ?"

"Blimey! Is that blood?" it was one of the twins who noticed, and it was ultimately all that was needed to make up Mrs Weasley's mind.

"Molly, I don't know if – "

"Oh shut it and help me get this poor lad into the house." there was no more argument, although not all were willing to assist, let alone be anywhere near the scene. Moody limped stubbornly inside and away from the hallway, slamming a door. As they all carried the young man into the old, decrepit house, rain pelted across the windows, and Mrs. Black began to scream.

* * *

The mysterious boy was rushed into the kitchen, while Sirius ran up the stairs to scream profanities at his howling mother. Her hatred echoing through the halls. Objects in the way crashed to the floor and were promptly forgotten about, silverware, plates, napkins, all joined the ranks as Molly swept a spot on the table clear in mere seconds, "Get his clothes off, find out where he's hurt. Ron, go get him something dry to wear, something warm! Fred, George, Hermione, Ginny, go upstairs!"

"But Mum –"

"Shit, there's blood all over the place Molly." Lupin's voice was a quiet utterance of concern, as the sickly looking man pulled on the black jacket that was damp and sticking to the young man's form.

He looked very young, maybe Fred and George's age, with a soft, handsome face and long blonde hair. It was darkened with water and pasted across his countenance as his strong features suddenly scrunched together in a pained grimace. Mrs. Weasley's hand was pushing it aside quickly, her palm taking its place.

"Fever. He's burning up," she mumbled, she could do something to help that. Her knowledge of medicinal magic was close to nonexistent compared to those trained in the matter, but with so many children to raise, one learns a few things. Her wand was out immediately, and she muttered a few spells to cool his body down while the others worked on his wet clothes. Ron came down only minutes later, and after handing off the clothes, was quickly rushed out of the room.

"Molly... Look." there were a few loud gasps.

"Hold on a second," she replied impatiently, mumbling the same spells again before feeling his head. "It's not working?" she whispered incredulously, "What?"

"Molly!" it was Moody now, tone demanding and harsh, she wondered when he decided to return to the situation, "Look."

Mrs. Weasley looked down at the boy on the table and all the air escaped her lungs in her shock. He was in only a pair of light blue boxers, and where his right arm and left leg should be, there were machines instead.

"Are those Muggle-made?" Arthur mused, prodding one with a finger, always the connoisseur of all things Muggle, "I've never seen anything like it before. At least not on a person."

"Is he a Muggle then?" Lupin asked, looking him over for wounds. Discovering that they weren't hard to find.

"It wouldn't make sense that he showed up on our doorstep if that were the case," Tonks reminded him, "he wouldn't have been able to see the house. Actually, he shouldn't have been able to anyway."

"He could be bad news," Moody said, voice firm, "a spy sent by _him_."

"If he knew we were here he would be sending much more than a spy, Alastar." Lupin said, banishing the theory with a shake of his head.

Some of the blood seemed to be coming from the area where the boy's flesh met the metal of his false arm. There were what looked like deep gauges there, and Lupin immediately set off to find something to wrap his shoulder in. His other arm had many puncture wounds, starting at one end and looking almost as if something had forced its way though his flesh, going in one side and emerging from the other, until finally nearing his heart, where the holes stopped. The last one, which was horribly near that very organ, was quite a bit wider, as if something had been ripped from the wound. There were various other lesser gashes all across his body, and some particularly deep ones around his abdominal area. It wasn't before she slipped in it that Molly realized there was too much blood.

"_Tergeo,_" she whispered, pointing her wand at the blood that streaked across the boy's body.

It remained.

"Arthur," she called, slightly panicked, "Arthur, try to clean the blood off the floor."

_"Tergeo... Scourgify... Evanesco!"_ his wand moved effortlessly through the air and his silent, simple spells soon escalated into frustrated commands, _"Scourgify!" _

Sirius came into the room then, took one look at the boy and said a calm, _"Vulnera Sanentur," _when nothing happened, his brows pulled together in confusion.

Moody was the first one to break the silence that had settled over them, "Magic doesn't work on him."

* * *

"You don't think Edward will sacrifice himself, do you...?" Riza asked Roy, who was clutching onto her arm, eyes looking unseeingly upon the scene before them.

"No. He knows the fear and despair of being left alone." Roy replied, eyes narrowed, sounding only slightly unsure, "He wouldn't put Alphonse through that."

Edward's eyes widened, unshed tears burning behind his eyes. He turned his head up, looking at the people that surrounded him.

"He wouldn't be alone," he muttered, not seeing the eyes of his friends widen in horror, "he would have all of you. His friends," he reasoned, searching desperately for vindication for the only thing he could think to do. With one final look at his brother's empty, ruined armor – one look that set his heart ablaze with sorrow and regret – he let out a horrible, grief-stricken scream, clapped his hands together, ad placed them on the hard stone ground.

* * *

"_Edward, no!"_

* * *

___"Have you come for your brother?" _a million voices asked at once, the sound echoing in the vast expanse of white that surrounded him. Nothing but a huge stone gate lay in this place, where everything was empty, _"But how will you pull a whole person out? What is the payment? Will you offer up your own body?"_

Edward grit his teeth in hard determination, tasting the blood on his tongue as he swallowed the last of his qualms and prepared for the end, "Yes, anything. Take me."

There was a long moment of silence, before the Truth, the one, the universe, God... He began to laugh. A toothy, feral grin stretched wide across his faceless being and he laughed. A man's hard, throaty rumble, a little girl's chirpy giggle. Edward thought that surely, his own laugh must be in there somewhere. This was the only sound that resonated for a long time, before it finally looked up at him and spoke once more.

_"Wrong answer, Mister Al-che-mist," _it sang out.

"What?" Ed asked, dismayed.

It sighed an exaggerated sigh, _"It is truth that gives you proper despair," _it said, _"I had to tell another that earlier, I didn't think I would have to tell you the same. You are my favorite of those who have visited me."_

"I should have known I wouldn't be worth enough," Ed hissed, "I'm not even a whole person. Fuck," his hands covered his face, and he screamed out in frustration.

_"I will give you another kind of despair. What you fear worst, but still something you can overcome. Another chance, alchemist."_

"Another chance?"

_"What will you give to preserve your brother's soul? You have but only one more chance to find the correct answer, something worth everything that makes Alphonse Elric. Equivalent to body, mind, and soul, but your brother has no chances left."_

"My arm, again," Edward answered immediately, "the equivalent for his soul twice before, it should be enough again."

_"You are correct."_

Edward watched as his right arm transmuted slowly apart, deconstruction, the middle phase of alchemy. But he was most shocked when the reconstruction began, and the automail that had been destroyed during his fight with Father was once more in place of his arm.

"Why?" he mumbled, flexing his metal digits, and was just as surprised to find a black jacket around him, its long sleeves effectively covering the limb from view, "I don't understand."

_"You're selflessness has at the very least inspired me to give you these gifts, give you this chance to redeem yourself," _it explained, _"in the face of those more selfish who have stood before me this day. "Take me." was a relief."_

"...Thank you." Edward finally whispered, the words hardly even sounding in this world of white.

_"Say goodbye to your brother Edward Elric. You don't have long, find your answer."_

"Brother!" Al's voice came from behind, and Edward turned toward it with hope shining in his golden eyes. He was ever conscious of the gate opening its vicious maw behind him, but focused instead on the sight of his brother's body before him. The sight he had wanted to see for so very long.

_"Begin again, alchemist, you'll find your answer in the end... I hope," _the voice came from all around him, but he kept his eyes trained on Alphonse.

"Begin again?" he thought aloud.

_"You're so amusing," _it laughed, a cacophony of noises, joyous alike, _"you're brother will be waiting. Get going."_

Edward felt the strong pull of some otherworldly force on all his limbs, his torso, his shoulders, his head. He knew what lay behind him, a great eye of despair and truth, millions of black arms, figures, pulling him in. He did not look.

"Alphonse Elric," he said, determination and diligence hard in his voice, "I will be back, I promise, no matter what."

"I believe you," Alphonse cried softly, a frail hand reaching out.

"Don't worry Al, I love you. I promise I'll get you back." and then, everything was black.

* * *

"Someone get a hold of Dumbledore."

The voices that came up to Fred and George were in hushed tones, and Fred began pulling the string of the extendable ear he had lowered down the stairway up. Just in time too, for the door downstairs slammed open, the loud noise causing Walburga Black to start screaming from her portrait once more.

_"FILTHY BLOOD TRAITORS IN MY HOME! OF ALL THE LOW-RATE, UNRESPECTABLE – "_

"Shut the hell up!" Sirius' voice tore through the house, and after many insults, and quite a bit of effort, Sirius and Lupin had managed to shut the curtains on the blasted woman for the second time that night.

The twins and Ron immediately fled back to their respective rooms, in case their mother came upstairs to check to see where they were. Hermione was waiting for Ron in his room, "What did you guys hear?"

"Nothing really, it was hard to tell what was going on. They seemed a bit riled up 'bout somethin' though." Ron said, sitting on his bed and watching the old mattress sink down beneath his weight, "said somethin' 'bout getting' Dumbledore and everythin'."

Hermione's eyes widened in surprise, "So, do you think he's really hurt?"

"I don't know," Ron answered honestly, "all I could see when I tried to look at 'im was a lot o' blood. Everyone was crowdin' round 'im."

"Blood?" Hermione paled, and Ron nodded gravely.

"Yeah, how do you figure 'e found the place anyway?"

"I don't know either..."

* * *

Edward Elric listened with closed lids. He wasn't wearing clothes, and it seemed as if he was on a table of some sort, made of solid oak, in the middle of a large room. There were people all around him, mumbling and conversing in hushed tones. He could feel the chill of his automail against his flesh, so there was no hope of hiding that. He might have been kidnapped? Detained? But there were no restraints of any sort tying him to the table that he had been placed upon. It felt like his shoulder... His arm... and a good part of his torso seemed to be wrapped in bandages. His wounds screamed angrily at him but he ignored them all the same. After a few minutes it seemed as if the people had emptied out of the room; so, slowly, he chanced an opportunity to open his eyes.

He found himself in a large, dimly lit kitchen, with dark wood cupboard and antique looking appliances. They looked mostly unused, but old all the same. He threw his legs over the side of the table, his head filling with a rush of vertigo as he stood up. He fought the urge to fall, his right hand gripping the table hard as his stomach did flips in every direction. Where was he?

There was a newspaper lying on one end of the table, and he stumbled his way over to that side of the room. His right hand found the paper and clutched onto it tight, as he leaned both of his elbows against the table for support. His breath heavy.

The date was the first thing he noticed.

_July 28th, 1995._

Then it was everything else.

The way the pictures moved, over and over again, upon the page. The impossible words mixed throughout, words like "MAGIC" and "SPELLS" and "FLYING" and "APPARITION" and "BEWITCHED". Along with the location of the newspaper. LONDON, it read, and for some reason, this actually all made sense to Edward.

"A different world?" he whispered in disbelief, "A different time?" it sounded just as incredulous when he spoke the thought out loud as it had in his own mind, but for some reason, he knew it to be true. He both cursed the Truth and thanked him at the same time. Thanks for making me so decisive, for the strange knowledge he possessed, for he had seen the Truth.

Twice now, actually.

_So, this is my ultimate despair?_ Edward thought. _It took everything and everyone away from me._

He felt a sense of dread suddenly weighing him down, and brought his hands to his head and let out a strangled yell of frustration. This always happened. He would be stripped of _everything,_ everything he cared for. Kicked in the teeth every single time he got close and told to start all over again. He felt defeated. Sad. Angry. Overwhelmed.

"You left him in there alone?" a voice called from outside, in a language that Ed did not recognize but found himself understanding all the same. Each syllable sounded foreign and strange, but his tongue itched to speak it, try out this new knowledge that came from nowhere. Instead he bit hard on is lower lip, until it drew blood. Pulling himself away, before he got caught up in his mind, in the things he knew, present but locked away; waiting for his searching subconscious to free them.

A woman with red hair rushed into the room, looking with a shocked expression toward the spot on the table he had recently vacated. Edward noticed off hand that the table was soaked with is blood, and wondered if it would stain much. Her kind eyes found there way to the end of the room, where he now half-sat, half-leaned over the edge of the table, breath coming in short pants. His cheek pressed against the warm wood, and his golden eyes watching her calmly.

"You're awake..." she breathed, and Ed felt as if the statement was hardly directed toward him at all, "He's awake!" she called out a moment later, "He's awake!" her eyes never left his gaze. She looked nervous, slightly scared, anxious maybe? Edward wondered if he was the cause of all these emotions.

Within the next minute a large group of people had crowded into the room. An odd looking bunch, Ed mused, coolly leveling his gaze upon each newcomer in turn. He felt slightly exposed, and quite cold, even with the warm heat of the fire burning in its hearth beside him. All of these people gave him a wide berth, as if they were unsure as to whether or not he was going to up and attack them.

He sighed a deep, heavy breath of air, and held up his hands. He thought, with a strangled laugh, _I come in peace._

* * *

_**A/N: **_See, I'm playing with the concept that when Edward looked around at all his friends at the end, he found a different answer then the one he came up with in the manga. Because our very-rash Ed is quite impulsive, especially when prompted with despair, and I don't find it all that unlikely that he might sacrifice himself instead. Thanks for reading. I'm not too proud of myself to be you guys to click that button down there are leave review. Please? :)


	2. Adumbrate

_**Disclaimer: **_I own neither of the fictitious stories created by other people that I _borrow_ to use in this story.

_**A/N: **_Holy... Freaking... Christmas! I have NEVER gotten this much of a reception to a fic I wrote EVER, never so fast and so much! You guys are freaking bad ass man! I love you all. I looked at my email and I practically had a heart attack.

I got mixed reviews on the Truth. I think he was a wee bit out of character. Like I explained to a few of you, I like to think that he finds Edward amusing. So like, after this crazy black ball of sin takes years trying to make a plot to consume him and do... well... whatever with that power, conquer the world, yada yada, that cute little Ed showing up and offering his little insignificant human body up to him would be rather funny. Hoowweeevverrr, I read it myself, and I did decide that it was even rather uncharacteristic of ME. That's right, _I_ was out of character. I'm _never_ that nice. I think that I may go back and edit the first chapter, and I will inform you as to when I do, but only slightly. Same general idea, just with a little bit more malicious intent on the Truth's part. ;)

This is more or less... a filler. Gasp! It's rather short, and is simply to get Edward staying at Grimwauld Place. The next chapter is one of my favorites I've written so far, (it involves one of my worst fears and writing it made me squirm uncontrollably), so I'm really excited to get on with this chapter and post the third. Thank you so much for reading! And all the freaking favorites and reviews and alerts! Amazing!

Oh and, I wanted to mention that the title of Chapter One: Incunabula, is a very wonderful sounding word, that happens to mean _the earliest stages, or first traces, of anything._

* * *

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter Two**_

_**Adumbrate**_

* * *

"Who are you?" Moody asked in a cold, curt tone, staring at the boy who sat at the end of the table, slumped bloody in his chair with his hands held upward in an _"I surrender" _gesture.

The mysterious boy only stared at Moody in return, his strange golden eyes boring forward as if they were searching for something in the man. No answer came. Mrs. Weasley found herself taken by the strange piercing hue of his eyes, lost in the intensity of his gaze. With the serious state of his wounds he shouldn't have even been conscious yet. Lupin had told them it might take hours for him to wake up. Apparently, he was wrong.

"Do you know where you are?" it was the for mentioned werewolf that spoke now, curiosity in his voice, among other things.

The boy turned his head from side to side, observing his surrounding carefully, before turning back to Lupin and shaking his head _"No."_

"Do you know of Twelve Grimwauld Place?" Moody questioned, taking a step toward him.

The boy's eyes darted instantly toward Moody's feet, taking notice of his slight approach, before returning to the man's scarred face; watching as the strange eye moved on its own accord. Another shake of his head came, along with a barely noticeable shiver.

Molly's motherly instincts immediately roared up their many-eyed heads, and she began to move toward him as well, a blanket she had been meaning to place over his unconscious form held in her outstretched hand. He immediately lurched out of his chair at her slow advance, but swooned a moment alter, one hand clutching his head and the other catching his balance on the side of the hearth. She let out a soft shush, not stopping her deliberate steps toward him, he eyed her warily, "Don't worry," she explained, he flinched as the blanket made contact with his cold skin, "you just look cold. I only want to help."

"You need to sit down, at the very least," Lupin warned, "you've lost a lot of blood. You shouldn't be up." Let alone be able to be up, was the part he left out.

"I don't think you two should treat him like a god damned house guest!" Moody spat angrily, and gold eyes flashed in his direction, "What if he's a Death Eater?"

"I don't think that's the case, Alastar, calm yourself!" Remus lectured as Moody barred his teeth with an angry growl of defiance, "If they knew where we were, I doubt that –"

"Maybe they're trying to take us down quietly! He could be some kind of strange weapon, pick us off one by one!" Moody interrupted him, "I mean, look at him, what if –"

In the next second, there was a knock on the door that interrupted Moody as well, and a starry-eyed, elderly man appeared with a _crack_ into the kitchen.

"Dumbledore?"

"That was quick." Arthur admonished, standing, quite shocked, behind the man.

"I hear we have a guest!" Dumbledore called, clapping his hands together cheerily and glancing around the room. The strange boy was currently against the wall, the blanket pulled over his head and his eerie topaz eyes wide with a mix of horror and surprise. The old wizard paced to the other side of the table, nearing the young blonde, who flinched outwardly as the man came near, "So, this is him?"

"I'd hardly say he's a _guest," _Moody sneered, "though everybody seems to want to treat him like one."

"Oh hush, Alastar!" Dumbledore scolded, causing the hardened man to look quite abashed, "He looks very much like a guest to me! What's your name young man?"

The boy blinked up at the wizard slowly, before his eyes narrowed and his brows pulled downward. His jaw set in a hard, stoic fashion that accentuated the now firm line of his mouth. Old blood was caked across his face, and it gave him a very frightening look when combined with his fierce features and animal-like stare. He shook his head again, but Dumbledore seemed unaffected.

"Are you not from here?" the man asked, "You understand me though, yes?"

The boy hesitated, before nodding. Molly frowned at this, observing the strange boy's face more readily, there was certainly something foreign about him, but she couldn't quite place it. Especially not now, from such a far distance and with so much dirt and blood obscuring her view.

"Can you speak English?" Dumbledore asked, and was not stopped for even a second when no sign of an answer came, "Well, whether or not you can, I do have to try one thing."

"Forgive this," he called, _"Levicorpus," _everyone held their breath for a long time before Dumbledore coughed pointedly, waving his wand through the air in a very much exaggerated motion and letting out a solid, _"Mobilicorpus!"_

Nothing happened.

The boy's face was overcome by confusion, and Dumbledore put away his wand somewhere within his intricate, flowing robes, a small smile a lit on his face, "So, it's true then," he exclaimed, "magic truly has no effect on you!"

"What do you make of it?" Lupin asked, after which quite a few protests were heard from Moody.

"I like him," Dumbledore said simply, turning to Mrs. Weasley, "What do you say Molly? A mother's instincts are the greatest of judges!"

Molly swallowed, before nodding briefly.

"Well then, it's decided," the wizard chuckled heartily, "better to have him here, where we can learn about him. He doesn't seem too dangerous, don't you think?"

"Are you serious?" Moody proclaimed, "What if he's a spy? What if he's being controlled?"

"Alastar, magic doesn't _affect _him, we've already established that." Tonks stated rather matter of fact, shaking her head.

"I say we keep him around, what's one more child?" Dumbledore exclaimed, as if this were some sort of adoption, and the boy's eyes narrowed considerably, "You're to get Harry soon, yes?"

"Yeah, we've been meaning to –"

"Well, I have to go. Treat him well, Alastar," Dumbledore said with a wink, "he's our guest."

Another _crack_ and he was gone, a piece of paper lay in his wake. Lupin reached down and grabbed it, his eyes scanned over the contents of the paper quickly, before muttering, _"Incendio." _and letter the ashes of it fall to the floor.

"Dumbledore says that its our job to learn about him, and send word of anything we find to him," Lupin whispered to a still-fuming Moody, his eyes moving toward where the boy now sat, stock still, staring at the place where Dumbledore had once been.

"Come on," Mrs. Weasley's voice came, directed toward the boy, "I've got a place for you to sleep." and with that she helped the astonished boy to his feet, helping him make slow progress – in the midst of which he insisted silently on dressing in the long pants and knitted sweater Ron had brought downstairs for him – out of the room and up the stairs. Where she would bring him to Ron's room, and give him a bed.

"What do we do about his blood?" Tonks wondered aloud as a sighing Sirius entered back into the room.

"We'll have to clean it the good old fashioned way," he said, "tomorrow." and shook his head before retreating to his bed as well.

* * *

Ron quickly pulled his heavy quilt over top his head as he heard a slow pair of footsteps approach his room, and the distinct drawl of his mother's hushed tones. He heard the door squeak open, and Mrs. Weasley entered, apparently leading someone to the bed on the opposite side of the room.

"You can sleep here. Do you need anything?" she asked.

There was no answer, not even the slightest noise.

"Come and find one of us if you do," she added, sounding concerned, "I know you don't know us, but we don't want to hurt you. We're here to help."

No answer.

"My son Ron is sleeping over there," she whispered, "I promise you'll be fine."

Nothing.

"Okay. Goodnight." her steps approached the doorway, and Ron heard the door click shut once more. Still he did not dare turn about, did not dare to move at all. There was some movement from the other side of the room, and what sounded like a clap, a small feeling, much like a breeze, the creak of bed springs, a rustle of fabric, and then nothing. Only his companion's shallow breathing, that signaled he was very much not asleep. Ron could not sleep most of that night, his eyes burned to see and his body longed to turn and face him. This new experience, this strange intruder to his room. The boy his brother's hand found, broken and bloody in the rain on the doorstep. A silent wraith that had spoken not a word to his mother. A simple curiosity. Interesting.

Eventually he fell asleep, but it was not long before he was woken once more, by the sound of the other boy moving across the way. Bed springs screamed once more, and two feet shuffled their way across the old floorboards, steps muffled. Ron bit back his anxiety and sat up in his bed, turning to look over at the boy that now stood in the washed out light of his open doorway, looking up at him.

"Oi – um..." Ron was surprised to say the least, and unsure of what to say, "Uh... hey Mate, er... Where are you going"

The boy merely stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned and fled the room, shutting the door behind him without a word.

* * *

_****__**A/N: **_Adumbrate means _to produce a faint image or resemblance of; to outline or to sketch; to prefigure._ Like I said, it's short and nothing really happens in it. But I felt it was necessary. Hope it went well enough. Thanks! :)


	3. Egregious

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or Harry Potter.

_**A/N: **_Thank you so much for the constructive criticism guys (especially informing me that I spelled Alastor wrong! Repeatedly! Sorry!) I love you guys all so much because you're... awesome! It's true! Really! You guys are awesome and that's all there is to it. Who _wouldn't_ love you? That's the question you should ask yourself. Who could possibly not love you guys. The answer, my friends, is no one.

Alrighty, in a quick explanation of why I made Dumbledore so eerily cheery that I am now considering going back and fixing it slightly, I was going with the idea that he was acting that way as a front in front of Edward (plus he's also a wee bit loony, really) and is having the others watch him in a more serious manner. A reason for Edward to have to stay at Grimwauld Place, you see.

This chapter makes me want to cry in the beginning, because however irrational the fear may be, I am TERRIFIED of all SHARP, POINTY things that push and push through your skin until it rips apart and the sharp and pointy thing slips inside of your waiting flesh! Ew! The nurses always have to tell me to breathe when I get shots and ask me if I'm still there because they think I passed out when I give blood. Needles are the bane of my existence.

If, for some reason, you are offended by vulgar language (which if you are, you probably shouldn't like Edward Elric), then I apologize for the first word of this chapter. As well as for a good deal of the words that run through Edward's head for the rest of this story. Here I go, sorry, there I went. :)

And yes, all the chapter names are in English, they're just _fancy _;)

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter Three **_

_**Egregious**_

* * *

"Fuck," Edward growled as his hand slipped in the blood. Needles had always terrified him, and this was no exception. He wished he could just suck it the hell up, because his shaking hands weren't making it any easier to push the sharp point through his skin.

He had a piece of wood he had transmuted from some of the elements found in the woodwork of the outside hallway clenched between his teeth, his molars grinding hard upon the splintering surface, in an attempt to keep himself quiet. And the sink was running, just in case.

Whoever these crazy "magical" people were that had apparently taken him in, had no idea how to treat a wound. They didn't even bandage them correctly. The stress that his farce limbs passed onto his thin frame made him prone to things like infection, especially when wounds were left _open_ and _uncleaned. _He wasn't sure if they thought they would _hurt_ him by wrapping the bandages too tight, and thus applied them considerably too loosely, or if they simply had not had to do so in the past. He would hate to have to inform them that they were hurting him _more_ by doing a shitty ass job.

They always say: if you want something done right, then you have to do it yourself.

At first he had thought of cauterizing the wounds. Because, ultimately, the stubborn, shot-shy child deep inside of him (or maybe not so deep) was actually convinced burning himself all over the place would be a good alternative to stitches. When really, in the long run, the burns would probably cause more harm than help. He wanted them to heal properly, after all, and he wasn't _necessarily_ in any sort of dire rush. He'd never had to stitch himself up before (and now wonder, it was amazing he hadn't fainted from the pure horror of it) but there was a first time for everything. He knew enough about cleaning wounds and had certainly seen enough stitches _in_ his body that he thought he should at least have some sort of vague idea on how to accomplish this task. Plus, he was a god be damned genius for crying out loud, he could do it!

When he had finally plucked up enough courage to start, he hadn't really realized how hard it would be.

There was the fear, of course, because every single time the transmuted metal _punctured his skin_ he felt like fucking vomiting. Then there was the fact that all the particularly down-reaching, deep gashes seemed to be in the wrong places, awkward angles and almost impossible stretches to get it right and even _move _his arm without tensing a muscle that made him hurt even more. And finally, all the blood. The blood from the wounds, and from the points where the needle pushed into his flesh. Every single time his hand slipped in the scarlet red liquid he wanted to rip all the stitches from his body and strangle someone at the same time.

He stumbled over his careful work again, stabbing himself near his hip bone with the needle, and, despite himself, his mouth flew open in a garbled cry of pain. His eyes fell fearfully upon the long, thin, piercing instrument, sunk deep into his body so that only the very top of it was showing over the small wound, and fought the bile that quickly rose to the top of his throat. The wooden block clattered to the floor when his mouth launched itself open in reflex, and he scowled quickly at it, attempting to compose himself. He grunted decidedly, placing his flesh fist in his mouth and biting down hard on his knuckles, drawing blood with his sharp incisors heading the attack, as he wrapped his metal fingers around the needle and pulled it away from his flesh with – One. Sharp. _Tug._

_What the hell was that Edward Elric?_ He scolded himself vehemently. _Way to blow the fucking lid off of the secret part of this operation._

Even though he was almost positive that the noise he had just made – as it as quite loud, and he assumed not only to his own ears –must have woke someone in a house full of strangers who were already mildly suspicious of him, he continued on anyway, cursing quietly and placing the wood back between his teeth. There was blood on the floor all around him now, but it was reassuring, at the very least, to see that in emanated mostly from his more shallow cuts. (They seemed to find that bleeding uncontrollably was an attractive thing to do.) He was almost done though, the deep gouge just above his left hip bone had been one of the worst off – and was made no better by his recent assault on the area – and he almost had it closed off all of the way.

"Hey, what are you doing in there?" the ginger haired boy from earlier called out from the other side of the door, and Edward bit back a yell of frustration. Instead he said not a word in reply, which was recently his decided choice of action. He didn't feel particularly all that good and fluffy and wonderful about the Truth dropping him off somewhere where everything existed solely to punch him and all of his beliefs in the balls. Taking everything away from him. His friends. His family. Alphonse. His _time. His world, _he supposed. He also didn't _know_ these people or give a shit what they _thought_ or _knew_ about him. If Truth wanted to play games with him he would be a good little puppet and dance on his strings for a while. He was obviously worthless. Not even worth enough to get his brother back. And he had no clue whatsoever how to find the answer that he needed. He was a failure. And _Alphonse _had to pay for it. What a _great_ fucking person he was. What a _great_ brother.

With this thought, he pushed the needle a little further into his body than he had before.

The door handle turned uselessly, and Edward figured that the boy outside was trying the doorknob, only to find it locked. The blood was running down the tile of that bathroom floor of the slightly crooked, old house in a set stream. Like a scarlet river rushing toward the doorway. Determined in its path. And the moment Ron found his bare foot in something sticky and warm and looked down to find it was _blood_. Well, he panicked. This was all way too much like one of those freaky muggle cult horror films that Hermione had convinced him to watch once. This was all way too much like one of those freaky Muggle cult horror films that Hermione had convinced him to watch once.

In the bathroom, over the rushing water of the sink, Edward heard Ron's shrill scream of terror, and glanced toward the doorway in confusion. Some of the blood that had spilled from his body onto the floor had decided downstream was toward the doorway, and the red-headed boy must have noticed.

"Fuck," he growled once more, pushing the needle quicker and clenching down hard with his teeth. Just a little bit more.

* * *

Ron's scream woke the one person in the house that could successfully manage to wake everyone else up instantaneously.

"FILTHY, PUTRID – _" _Walburga Black's shrieking echoed through the house in a terrible screech, and Sirius burst from his room in a fit of rage, hair askew.

"Ron!" he shouted, "What the hell? _Twice_ today _already,_ and you decide a third time sounds like fun?"

Mrs. Weasley came next, Ginny and Hermione trailing behind her, "Ronald Weasley, why are you out of your bed? People are trying to _sleep. _And _why_ did you leave the sink running?"

"MUDBLOOD, TRAITOR! I'LL CUT MY HEART OUT MYSELF YOU HORRIBLE – "

Lupin and Moody now, a "What's going on?" coming from both as a seething Sirius stomped down the stairs to silence his banshee of a mother.

Ron lifted his foot up in the perfect picture of owl eyed fright, lost for words, and almost fell onto his back as Fred and George apparated with a loud _crack_ directly beside him.

"Hell," one of them mumbled, looking at his outstretched foot.

"Is that blood?" the other finished, adding, "What's happening?"

"Ron? What did you do to yourself?" Hermione asked, concerned.

Ron shook his head and pointed a shaking finger at the bathroom door. There was a dim light shining from inside, most likely the result of a lit candle, and in the shine of it they could see the liquid running from the crack beneath the door. Hermione gasped in realization, and immediately crashed against the wood, her hands turning the doorknob furiously. Someone was in the bathroom, and they were hurt. She had to get inside.

Lupin pulled her away, whipping out his wand and quickly unlocking the door, as several other's wands a lit with silent castings of _Lumos_ behind him. He wrenched open the door with a startling amount of force, while Moody and Sirius behind him pushed the children back behind them, and his breath promptly hitched in his throat at what he found.

Many expressions flew across the strange boy's face, none of which Remus Lupin thought appropriate to the situation. He looked at first like an embarrassed and surprised child, caught up past his bedtime, sneaking sweets, with his hand in the cookie jar. Then came a sort of exasperated frustration, followed soon by anger. His eyes flashed and narrowed, glaring at the crowd of people looking in on him, as he deftly pulled the thick thread clasped between his fingers tight, the skin of one of his wounds molding together beneath the stitching. He spit a small piece of wood that had been clenched within his jaw onto the floor, tying the thread in a quick, yet complicated knot and using his teeth to break it off just above the tie. Lupin only looked on at the scene before him with a strange sense of shock and feeling disturbed all at the same time.

"What are those?" Ron asked quietly, as he felt the bile rise to the top of his throat. The room was dark, and he could hardly see the figure within. But before Moody has pushed him away, he had caught the briefest glimpse of the stitches that pulled ugly and bloodied against the boy's stomach.

Arthur Weasley – who had emerged from behind his wife and daughter and rushed quickly to the door, pushing Ginny entirely out of the way – answered slowly, sure in his words, "That's what Muggles use to close their wounds. Their doctors do it..."

Edward Elric rolled his eyes and rose to his feet in one smooth motion. When he fell to the ground a moment alter, darkness pulling on the edges of his vision, it was considerably less so.

* * *

The second the boy tried to stand up, and he fell back against the bathroom floor, collapsing in on himself, Hermione found every adult's hands pushing her away. It had been hard to see anything at all in the room, the only light _in _the room being a small candle on the floor – which was now toppled over, and the wax was dripping onto Edward's left bicep, which would sting like hell later – and the steam from the hot, running water of the sink had clouded all about in the room. But she had managed to at least see what he had been doing, in the briefest of glimpses, that made her look away so fast she wished she hadn't looked in the first place. The moment it had registered in her mind as ,"that boy was stitching his own stomach back together" she felt dizzy. She wanted to go back, to get a better look at him, to ask him why? But that would mean she would have to see the stitches, and imagine it all again. Plus, the adults all seemed to want to keep all the children from getting more then a millisecond of a chance to witness it.

Mrs. Weasley gave them no clear instructions as she shoved them roughly into the hallway from which they came, so they all proceeded to herd into Ronald's room together. Upon arriving, Ron sat on his floor in front of his bed, while Ginny say atop it, and Fred and George took a seat on the bed across the room. Hermione stood, not entirely trusting herself to lean over or move downward without reuniting with her dinner.

There was an eerie silence that befell them, for not a single one knew what to say about what had just occurred, or how to make sense of any of it. She finally noticed Ron moving, but it did nothing to comfort her.

He pulled his bare right foot so that he could tilt it up to his face, and stared in horror at the blood that stained the pale skin of his soles. She started forward, pulling her wand as he began muttering incoherent babble, full of "bloody hell's and "no, no, no, ew,"'s. She touched the tip to his soiled foot quickly and called out a simple spell.

When the blood remained, she frowned, "_Tergeo." _she said firmly, and Ron's panicked eyes widened.

"What?" Ginny mumbled, her brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"Let us try," the twins said together, and in unison pulled out their own wands and tried to clear the blood form their brother's foot as well. Nothing happened.

Hermione took a towel from Ron's shower earlier that night – strewn across the floor and still damp of course – and moved toward him. Silent as she started to rub away the bright red liquid that had grown sticky and thick. _Muggle way of doing things_, she thought mirthlessly, as another thought pulled through her unwilling mind. _"That's what Muggles use to close their wounds."_

Ron watched her with a mixture of disgust and fascination in his expression. When she was finished, however, he did not ask a question that the curiosity in his eyes led her to believe he would.

"He looked angry when the door opened," Ron said, simply, nervous, and his words shook.

"Couldn't get a good look at him," George commented, and his other siblings grunted and nodded in agreement as he shrugged.

"Me either, really," Ron continued, "but I saw the 'stitches'. It was like he was stitching himself up like you would stitch clothes," he shuddered.

"Can you imagine doing that? To yourself?" Ginny wondered.

"No," Hermione quipped, "Oh, goodness, no, no, no. Just the thought of pushing the needle through your skin, and then again, and again," thinking about it made the bile rise up in her throat once more.

"Who do you think he is?"

"Think he'd done it before?"

"Why would anyone need to?"

"Think he's a death eater?"

"I want to see him again," Hermione said, acknowledging the fact, "I feel so left out. It's all so weird."

"Yeah," Ron nodded, and with another look at the never-to-be-white-again towel on the floor a ways off, he sighed in disbelief.

"Bloody hell."

* * *

_**A/N: **_I had something I wanted to say, but I forgot it.

_**Egregious: **extraordinary in some bad way, extreme, distinguished, glaring, eminent._


	4. Boff

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or Harry Potter and I don't have anything fun to say about it ;)

_**A/N: **_Anatidae, I propose we add someone to our deal GREYFITTI! I insist that you join our update-agreement, because if you don't update The Hero soon, I will be forced to punch you in the face. THROUGH A COMPUTER! Yes, I can do that. (Edit: right after I wrote this, you updated. Like magic. Like _I'm _magic!)

Anyway, here's the fourth chapter. No needles in this one as far as I can tell, *great sigh of relief*.

* * *

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter Four**_

_**Boff**_

* * *

The next day the boy was nowhere to be found. At least for Ron.

The breakfast table was quiet and uncomfortable, and not a single one of them could seem to gather up the courage to ask about what had happened the night before. Ron chewed slowly on a slice of toast, butter melting and soaking through the pores of the burnt bread.

He wished he had at least attempted to convince Hermione to make his toast for him, so it would have ended up at the very least a bit more edible.

He wished Harry was here. Harry would know what to do. He would ask about the boy and he would look for the answers he wanted. And Ron, he would help. That would at least be a constant, something of a normality, familiar amidst this sudden confusion.

Hermione expressed her – oddly enough – _concern_ over the mysterious new comer to them last night in his room. She had commented on the fact that if he was stitching himself up, he must have _needed _stitches. Though it was completely unclear to her why the adults hadn't just healed his wounds with magic. Ginny had quickly agreed – though she didn't know, really, what she was talking about when it came to Muggle things like that – and voiced her own worry, while the three brothers stared at them in open surprise. They had never even met the boy, let alone _saw_ him (or more than a glimpse of him). Yet, despite this fact, Ron still felt a certain jealousy rise up within him and nip at his ears until they turned red with rage and green with envy. Just as ridiculous as their strange, caring qualms.

(Ron was confused about his feelings for Hermione. At times like this, at the house with his family and Harry – who actually wasn't here, at the moment, but still – he felt... something... a lot. For her. Then at school, with girls all around him, and love potions, and classes, and near-death situations to worry him. Well, it seemed to fade away. Options opened. He supposed. However, he was still just as confused.)

The day passed without much event at all. They worked on cleaning u the horribly dirty, dank old house that was Twelve Grimwauld Place. They ate lunch with small, guarded conversations, and later, and even during dinner that night, they finally fell back into their rhythm of steady, hearty joking. Ron was hyper aware of all the adults though. He was one-hundred percent sure the boy was still here, just beyond his vision, right behind every door. Stitching himself up like the seams of a shirt.

Well, maybe not _every _door.

They were horrible at being secretive too. Quite a few times Ron knew _exactly_ where the boy was. They would whisper to each other in passing. Walk through the halls and look at a particular door nervously, just a little too long. Tonks was the easiest to read, always horrible at hiding her emotions. She flinched at the sound of her name, hair, eyes, skin changing color without warning in her surprise and anxiety. She was tense, on edge. Mrs. Weasley, his own mother, was a dead give away as well. As she was scarcely seen the entire day through. Not even to lecture, to scold, to lavish them with motherly affection and horridly colored knitted sweaters.

That night, Ron heard the door to his room creak open, effectively waking him from his slumber. With a whisper of, "Now, we're trusting you not to leave the room, alright?" he heard silence and creaking bed springs and knew immediately that he had found the boy.

When he closed his eyes he saw himself, abdomen ripped open like a torn piece of clothing, pushing a needle through his flesh with a stunted scream. He jerked awake each time, quick breaths pouring out of his lungs, and listened hard. Listened to see if the boy would get up, leave, go to the bathroom, maybe. Tear himself apart and put himself back together again. This was silly to think, he knew that.

It wasn't long before he heard shuffling footsteps on the wooden floor, and his door closing with an echoing _click. _But tonight, he was too scared to leave his bed.

* * *

Edward woke in a cold sweat, the world spinning around him. The very first thing he did – after remembering that he had promptly passed out in front of everyone in the bathroom – was work out why, exactly, it was that he fell into unconsciousness.

Equations had always stopped his world from spinning. Logic, please. Knowledge, thank you. He liked control, which he rarely had. But he was in control of each number and decimal point, each curving arc of each geometrically correct circle with interlacing parallelograms.

He ran as many simple equations as he could think of through his mind until he was calm. Which wasn't that hard, he could have gone for hours.

He really should have know. His pride had forced him to rise to his feet smoothly and unhindered, even though his whole being had been protesting. His naturally developed instincts had told him that to show any weakness made him a pussy, a vulnerable little push-over, it was like saying, "Here, I'm hurt, take advantage of the opportunity." He shouldn't have felt so threatened, they had been nice to him so far, he supposed. He shouldn't have stood up at all, maybe. He had already lost plenty of blood over the last 72 hours or s, and he really didn't have that much body mass, that much blood, to lose in the first place. He probably wouldn't be able to walk without being dizzy for at the very least a week. Even as he woke he could feel all the blood rush away from his head, to fuel other places deemed more important by his nervous system, leaving his brain empty and disoriented. That blood decided to go push on his esophagus instead, coaxing the bile that had risen there up inch by inch.

His insides contracted with fire, and he turned to his side and let loose the smallest bit of water from his deprived organs. Still healing from that incident not too long ago, when they were crudely torn apart and rudely fused together again (but only barely). He continued to dry heave, not even bothering to think up any accompanying vulgarities to spice up his situation. His whole body burned, raw and getting rawer, and he felt like his throat was tearing from the effort. His body was struggling so hard to throw up food that didn't even exist.

"Oh my goodness!" a woman's voice exclaimed from the just-opened doorway somewhere to his right. The woman from earlier, who had been especially kind to him.

He held up a hand as his body began to settle down, feeling for some reason a need to stop her from worrying. _Old habits, I guess, _he humored as he wondered why this woman was even worrying over him in the first place.

She was so different from his mother in every single way. Opposite in every spectrum. But she gave off the same loving sort of motherly vibes that simply pulsated _maternal_ in the air around her. Touching everyone. She reminded him of Trisha in the most painful of ways.

"Are you okay?" she cooed, placing a hand on his back, one which he quickly shouldered away. For some reason, she was not at all put off by this.

_Just like a mother, _he wanted to say. To think. But he really hadn't been around mothers enough to know whether it was or not.

One more, final, strangled attempt to toss up the dinner he hadn't eaten out of his stomach and he was finished. Thoroughly exhausted, he lay back on the bed he was laying in with a sigh. That sigh turned into a cough, and when he looked at his hand there were specks of red across his palm. He made a fist and pushed his teeth together hard, biting back the next cough that threatened his already aching body.

He was briefly aware of the woman mopping up the clear fluid on the floor, along with a little blood that had managed to escape his mouth as well. She gave him one worry filled glance before leaving the room.

Ed couldn't bring himself to care where she was going, as his eyes grew heavy in his head and he felt black closing in all around him. But once she was gone – before he soothed his mind with thoughts of home, thoughts of Alphonse, and drifted off – he filled the empty room with a quiet, "Thank you," meant for her ears.

* * *

When Ron came down the stairs for breakfast that morning – feeling wholly un-rested and looking all the same – it was particularly earlier than he _ever_ woke. Six-thirty in the morning was a time that was foreign to his tongue, and his body, especially in the summer. But he'd hardly slept a wink that night, and when light began to leak into his room he had abandoned every effort to do so.

He was the first younger inhabitant of the house to get up. (He was surprised, he had always half-thought Hermione woke up at some strange, nerdy, ungodly hour like three or four.) And when he walked into the kitchen for breakfast, nose high in the air because something smelled _wonderful_ and he had a good feeling that something might be bacon, he noticed several things all at once.

First, his mother was making bacon. Just as he had predicted, along with eggs, and toast, which was equally as exciting. Then, all the adults were present in the room, except for Moody. Next, they were all staring at him. After that, that there was only one person in the room that was not doing so. Finally, he noticed who that person was.

A boy in a thick knitted sweater with golden blonde hair sat at the end of the long table, watching Mrs. Weasley cook with the straightest face he'd ever seen.

Ron almost tripped over the doorway.

The boy as thin-framed, with a strong face that had somewhat of a different look about it. He couldn't quite place what it was exactly. He had long blonde hair that was pulled up in a ponytail at the back of his head, with unruly bangs that hung free and framed his prominent features. He looked... Intimidating. Though he couldn't have been much older than Ron himself. Still, he seemed even more so as he slowly turned to face the ginger-haired boy who's eyes were trained upon him. Ron paled slightly at the sight of his yellow-gold eyes, for they reminded him very much of some wild animal, observing its prey.

The boy's face deepened into a scowl, and he gave him a firm nod. Mrs. Weasley turned around then, putting a fair amount of sizzling bacon on the boy's plate and watching him pointedly until he slowly lifted a fork. Ron sat down next to Lupin, and noticed that the boy was wearing white gloves. Just as he acknowledged this, so did his mum, her fingers pulled on the fabric covering his left hand and she tilted her head in confusion, "Where'd ya get these?"

The boy shrugged.

Mrs. Weasley continued to watch him, until he hesitantly forked a single piece of scrambled egg and lifted it to his lips. She nodded and smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder for the quickest of seconds, and then turned back to her cooking.

Ron watched the boy closely as he ate his own breakfast, and noticed that he ate only two bites more, and only when Mrs. Weasley looked at him expectantly. The rest he pushed into well placed heaps to conceal his lack of real progress with eating the meal, and drank two glasses of water.

When the other came down the stairs not a single one of them said a word to the blonde boy, not even his outrageous, overzealous twin brothers. Mrs. Weasley decided that it was a good idea to have an introduction.

The boy nodded in acknowledgment to each of them, listening carefully as Mrs. Weasley listed off each of their names. When she was done they all looked at him, patient curiosity stark on their faces.

He said nothing.

No, "Hi guys, my name's Aaron." or "Jason's my name, Jason Jones." (Ron was completely aware that these quickly fabricated names were semi-ridiculous.) and Ron found the he couldn't even think of a name that could possibly begin to fit him. Describe his piercing gaze and exotic features. His silence and his scarlet blood. Who _was_ he?

In another second, his expression twisted from a look of cool observation, to a panicky, distressed, wide-eyed countenance that he turned toward the woman who had been about to speak. Her eyes grew a size in return, and she scrunched up her brow in confusion before nodding, "What's wrong?"

He successfully ignored her question, as the moment her chin had moved down and then up once more he rose from the table. Eyes darting toward the door and beginning a hasty retreat. He didn't quite make it there, however, and they soon found the mysterious boy falling in a crumpled heap to the floor just before the doorway. His whole body shuddered and suddenly the two glasses of water and three bites of scrambled eggs Ron had watched him consume earlier were on the floor, and without a moments hesitation his body went to repeat the action, and this time there was red, crimson red, within the small amount of liquid. Ron felt sick.

Hermione, who had been sitting closest to the doorway, was the first to react, "Oh my God!" she gasped, "Are you okay?" (Dumb question, it always was.) her hand flew to his back as she descended to the floor beside him, pushing his bangs away from his face. She turned to look at Molly and then to Lupin as he stood up, moving toward them.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked, her voice quivering.

"I don't know," Remus answered honestly.

* * *

_**A/N: **_Annnnd, I think that the switch from Ron's point of view to Edward waking up for the first time after passing out is confusion. Edward's part comes _before_ him being brought back to Ron's room. I will not say what Ed was doing getting up in the middle of the night this time, as it could be a number of things, and I don't know _everything _about the story. Edward wants some alone time occasionally. (Just kidding, I think that he got ready – gloves, clothes, etc. – tried to at least stretch and get his body working again, wondered the house, spent about an hour puking in the bathroom, took a twenty minute nap in a chair somewhere, and then Molly found him and insisted on making him breakfast.)

_Boff: to empty one's stomach, to vomit._

Anyway, thanks for reading. Once again, I'm not too proud to beg for reviews. Pretty please ;)


	5. Pertinacity

_**Disclaimer: **_Because the world hates me, I do not own Harry Potter, or Fullmetal Alchemist. I also do not own round glasses, mine are very much more square, even though I don't wear them, as contacts are the greatest invention since Edward Elric. Maybe.

_**A/N: **_So, as I've explained before, but not to the people who _only_ read this story, one of the reasons for my lapse in any updates at all is the fact that I have injured myself. My right hands all beat up, thumb sprain, pulled ligament in my palm, and the tip of my thumb might be broken. And despite removing my horribly bulky brace to type this, it still takes a while, because it kind of hurts, so, yeah. The hardest part was that I usually write out all my stories before I type them, ALL OF THEM, which I'm considering scrapping, because I might get done sooner and might have longer chapters if I don't. However, I feel like I write different typing than I do writing, so I'd like to still keep a respectful amount of both. It is, though, almost impossible for me to write currently. So typing is good too. Thankfully, I have many chapters of this story pre-written, though they are begging me to be revised.

I also decided that I am going to write up _two_ of my normally written chapters. Because I don't like the length of them currently, and if I ever want to get this story done (as I assume it will be one of my longest) I think I should probably write longer chapters. The only problem is that I like to write, like, a scene at a time, so I have to kick myself here. Oh well.

Another reason this has taken so long is because I have been completely immersed in a Harry Potter and Fullmetal Alchemist crossover that I found, that was written a long time ago, and I am currently very angry. Because after plowing through many wonderful chapters of _Cerulean Silver vs Amber Gold _I have discovered that she NEVER FINISHED THE STORY! I just got to the second to last chapter and I figured that out. It's so off-putting, as I've spent a good portion of my life just reading that as fast as I could. Ugh. Still though, you guys should check it out. It's a well-written story. (though it goes with the whole "Amestris is on Earth" thing, that's the only thing I really had to get past)

* * *

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter Five**_

_**Pertinacity**_

You could see the determination in her eyes.

Hermione Granger had made a decision. A decision that whoever this poor, retching boy on the floor was, she was going to help him. Whatever it was that was wrong with him, she was going to fix it. Whatever was keeping him silent and resigned, she was going to mend it. Or at the very least, she was going to try her best, and then some.

She instantly took him under her wing, unwillingly, like a baby bird gently forced into shelter. Which, in reality, didn't make much sense when you put it that way, even in her own mind. It was clear that he needed help, whether he wanted help or not. He couldn't stop her. If there was _any_ way to help this strange, interesting young man that had wondered into their lives (arriving bloody and broken at the front doorstep) well, then she was going to do just that. She took his arm and helped him up from the ground, guiding him gently in the direction of the bathroom, brushing off Lupin's hand that tried half-heartedly to hold her back. He followed without too much resistance, too focused on stopping the trembling of his own body to worry about who it was he was holding onto and where they were taking him. They only had to stop once, halfway up the stairs, when the boy fell into a coughing fit, and Hermione was horrified when she found blood on the stairs directly thereafter.

"Come on, let's get you washed up," she whispered to him as they entered the room. Thinking briefly of the last time she'd seen him in this room, and wondering if the blood from his coughs was because of what had been occurring that night. He rinsed out his mouth in the sink wordless, as Hermione grabbed a washcloth and attempted to wash off his face, he didn't even acknowledge her. He ran the water for a moment and than splashed a good deal of water across his features, without taking off his gloves, she noticed.

He hooked his hands underneath his shirt and started to pull the sweater over his head. Hermione blushed when the skin of his stomach was revealed to her, she felt intrusive and embarrassed, but it was quickly covered again and he looked at her quite oddly. She wondered if he was upset that she hadn't left him alone, but when she met his expression she found him looking puzzled, and slightly startled, like he hadn't even noticed that she was there in the first place. She blushed again.

"That's the shower there," she said, feeling like an idiot for even pointing that out, "if you'd like. I'll go."

He said nothing, nodding at her after a few seconds of silence, and still looking a little uncertain, and Hermione quickly turned and rushed out of the room. The water could be heard turning on behind the closed door and she let out a deep sigh of relief, though moments later her nerves began to take over again. Worry for the strange boy muddling up her thoughts, what if he had another puking episode of fainting or _god knows what_ in there.

Upon her return to the breakfast table, no one served to calm her.

"You left him alone in there?" Mrs. Weasley called in disbelief, brandishing her spatula through the air, "You can't just leave him _alone!"_

"She's right," Lupin agreed, "we don't know much of anything about him, and it's obvious he's severely hurt. Something could happen."

"Or he could be stitching himself up again," Fred muttered with a shudder that passed through to George as well.

"Now boys," Arthur scolded, though he left it at that.

Hermione, however, scrunched up her face in exasperation and shot the two a look, "_Really, _he must have had a good reason for that before, and I doubt there's anywhere _left _to stitch."

Mrs. Weasley huffed and let the kids work it out themselves, walking out of the room, flying up the stairs, and going immediately to the bathroom door. She pressed her ear against it, unsure of what exactly it was that she was listening for. After water running was the only sound for a long moment, she hurried to Ron's bedroom, grabbing a black long sleeved shirt and a pair of tan trousers and white socks, hoping they would all fit him alright. It didn't matter too much, as it was mainly just her key to getting into the bathroom to check on him, but she didn't want them to fit horribly either. She grabbed a pair of red plaid boxers from one of Ron's unorganized drawers (albeit reluctantly, and very much hoping they were clean) and with another thought to the boy's thin frame, a belt as well. Then she made her way back to the bathroom, the load of clothes in her arms.

* * *

Edward felt immense relief the second he eased himself beneath the steady streams of water. At this point, he couldn't believe the way he'd just acted. Not only had he been _sick_ in front of _everyone, _but he'd let that girl _take care of him. _He might as well write himself up a sign that says _"GO AHEAD AND KILL ME" _and wear it around his neck everywhere he went, holding up his hands and saying, _"promise I won't even fight back,"_ to everyone he met. He had no idea where he was, and first impressions could be the most deceiving of things. Here was also the fact that not everyone apparently agreed that he was not dangerous, some were very suspicious of his intentions – and while he had no intentions to speak of, they were smart in being suspicious of him.

(He _was _dangerous, after all, very much so. Although they wouldn't know that, it was a simple fact. He was a weapon, sharpened to a razor's edge and fine tuned to the greatest of aim. State Alchemist. Fullmetal. Edward Elric.)

His whole body hurt. Every one of his muscles ached individually, and the stitched areas of his chest and abdomen seared with a fiery ache. He was light headed and disoriented, and couldn't keep his head on straight. He needed to start thinking, really thinking things through. The Truth must have had a reason for putting him here in particular (unless this was all some way to lead him astray, which was actually a painfully likely possibility) and if they wanted him to play this god damn game he would play it. For Alphonse. No matter how long it took he would _find_ the answer and give that bastard a piece of his mind as he took his brother – whole and wonderful – and brought him back to the world one step at a time. Their world.

His fist had found its way against the porcelain of the shower wall with an echoing _crack_, but he pulled his punch and quickly fixed the damage with alchemy. Control was important right now, and he needed to be in control of himself first of all. He was disciplined, stoic, resolute. (And apparently very good at lying to his undisciplined, stubborn, and impulsive self.) Screw this world and thew ay it had already dumped a load on his entire mindset, as well as his shoulders, and as well as his every thought since he became a rational, logical child of seven. The Truth had set a wild animal loose on his belief system, presenting it in the nicest of ways...

(This is _"Magic",_ this is _"Molly Weasley", _as it tore his mind to shreds. When really there was a whisper beneath it all going, _"Sic 'em boy, sic 'em good."_)

…a mindfuck for the sinner boy who they had like a puppet, so skillfully stringed and easily commanded. A flick of their wrist and the puppet would dance for the master. Impossible tasks. So long as the master promised a reward.

A dog that chases its tail. Circles and circles until you finally get there, but all you end doing is biting yourself in the ass.

"Um... Hey," it was a small noise, meek, but it scared Ed to death all the same. So lost in his thoughts that the almost inaudible voice had startled him out of his reverie so abruptly that his anger flared with his surprise. It seemed that there was no real purpose for that lock to even be on that door, as privacy clearly was not a huge moral standard here – locked or not. It was the woman, Molly Weasley's voice. He thought of her busty build and strong bellow of a tone and wondered at the minute anxiety in the quiet voice she used now. Maybe she was surprised. He could – after all – hear the great sigh that she exhaled after he made a small grunt of a sound to acknowledge her presence. It seemed she was immensely relieved that he wasn't shoving sharp objects through his chest. He didn't know whether he should find this funny or not. He decided that he should.

(Haha.)

He was still angry, so it wasn't the funniest thing, actually. His hand was itching to punch the porcelain at least once more.

"I brought you some clothes," she placed the words carefully down with the garments on the sink, sounding suddenly embarrassed, "I'm sorry."

He wasn't sure what she was apologizing for, but it may have had something to do with the fact that she had walked in on him while he was showering only to find that he actually _was_ showering. He did not thank her, nor did he tell her that it was okay, because his silence felt strong and he was beginning to like the mystery of it all, and he was angry. Very much so. At things he was sure this woman couldn't even comprehend. And at the woman as well, for her suspicion, and for her care.

He wasn't a child.

She hesitated for a moment, before wondering out of the bathroom, and upon the arrival of the sound of the door clicking shut he turned off the water of the shower. Careful to place most of his weight on his right side as he stepped out – so that he could feel the amount of purchase he had on the potentially slippery floor – he grabbed the waiting towel and quickly dried his automail as efficiently as he could manage. With an exaggerated sigh, he set to work on flesh of his body, with quite a bit less care. The clothes were simpler this time, and no heavily stitched itchy as hell sweater awaited him. He transmuted some of the material from the pants and some of the die from the cloth of the shirt into a pair of, admittedly thin, black gloves. Black, so that the automail would not be seen due to the lack in thickness. Making the bottom of his pant legs slightly thinner as well. He dressed and made his way to the door, pushing with his hand on the doorway and trying to think of what the fuck he was going to do out there. When nothing came to him at all he decided he was crazy. When did he every think?

It wasn't time to start now.

He wrenched open the door.

* * *

Ron sat on the steps with Hermione, but neither had said a word for quite some time. The presence of the strange adolescence upstairs had stolen their words, and Ron found himself again wishing Harry was here with an enthusiastic,_ "Let's get down to the bottom of things, right now!" _to offer them. He didn't quite know what was going on, and Hermione had a strange expression on her face that Ron didn't understand and she was offering him no answers.

"What do you think is wrong with him? That can't just be from his wounds, can it? And why haven't the adults just properly healed him with some magic, or taken him to St. Mungo's?"

Hermione's voice startled him out of his mind, and he pursed his lips in thought, before finally offering a very profound shrug in reply.

"We should help him."

That must be what that look was. Oh.

"What if 'e's a bad guy, 'Mione?" Ron sighed, looking away and feeling his ears burn, he let out the comment with a roll of his eyes, "Huh? We don't know _anything _about him."

"Not even his name," Hermione wondered, aloud, "Ron, do you know his name?" she seemed to want to head in an entirely different direction, effectively ignoring Ron's brief moment of wisdom.

"...No." Ron answered after a moment. It was kind of odd actually, he supposed that even though he referred to him as such in his toughs, _"strange boy" _wouldn't necessarily be the best way to address him. He recalled the table, when introductions had been made, only this very morning, and how the boy had simply nodded at each new identity, never giving his own return.

The sound of the door closing echoed through the hallways, and Ron and Hermione found Molly Weasley rushing down the stairs only moments later. There was a blush lighting up her cheeks and a scowl set tight on her mouth, "Mum, 'e's still kickin' right?" Ron asked, glancing uselessly up the stairs.

"He's fine, Ron," she replied softly, hands finding their way to her hips, "and shouldn't you two be off cleaning the house?" she quipped, changing the subject easily.

"Yes," Hermione answered smartly, "but we want to see him. I want to talk to him."

"I don't know if that's a good idea,"

"I think it'll be okay," she retorted hotly, surprising the older woman as well as herself.

"Good luck with that, that boy doesn't trust a single one of us," Mrs. Weasley's face turned redder sill, and she turned on her heels and stormed away. Ron cast Hermione a look of disbelief, mouth agape in mock shock, and a little bit of real shock too, and she rolled her eyes with the smallest of shrugs. Feeling ashamed and proud at the same time.

When the strange boy (there is was again, _"strange boy", _he wondered what Hermione thought of him as) walked between the two and continued on toward the kitchen without a word they both jumped in surprise. Ron's heart jumped in his chest. He hadn't heard the boy at all.

"Wait!" Hermione recovered from her shock, quickly reaching out a hand to gesture as her voice reached out for him as well, "Hey, hold on a second."

The boy froze and turned slowly around. His eerie golden gaze scanning over Ron and finally settling on the girl that had called for his attention. He stood perfectly still and silent, waiting for her to continue, and eying her warily. She didn't really know _what_ she had planned to say.

"Um... We just... What's your name?" Hermione asked, it was the only thing that came to mind, and she could have smacked herself the second it came from her lips.

The boy made no notion that suggested he was going to respond, instead he leveled his gaze on Ron for a long time. Ron was about to say something, feeling squeamish beneath the feral hues, but the boy ripped his eyes away and looked all about the room once. He eventually let his eyes wonder back to Hermione, who for some reason found herself suddenly regretting the question, feeling like a fool under the boy's scrutinous eyes.

And then he smiled. This twisted, little wry cocky, crooked grin, and walked right out of the room, leaving a speechless Hermione and a skirmish, uncomfortable Ron behind him.

* * *

_**A/N: **_So, this is actually just one written chapter. It's almost three-thousand words anyway, so, good enough. I looked at the next one and realized that this is kind of a transition chapter into that one, it has a much different tone, as Ed (you will notice, if you haven't already, even though its only slightly in this chapter) is becoming more Ed-ish as we go. He's letting his guard down just a little, right now, and so far, he's been pretty depressed. I mean, who wouldn't. And don't think I won't let him wallow a little in self-hatred. Because I will. Soon. But I need him to start doing adorable Ed things like punching people, throwing fits, and being sweet and being embarrassed and nervous about it. Ed does so many things that make me want to hug him. He's so confused. Never has there been a character as filled with personality as Edward Elric. Ever.

Anyway, Ed is going to start to like Ron and Hermione I think (Hermione first, and both in different ways, most likely) and I'm still unsure as to whether or not I'm even going to let Harry like our dear Edward.

_Pertinacity: the quality of being pertinacious; persistance._

Speaking of Ed, somehow (without me even planning on typing that part) he has gone from not talking because he's being careful, unsure, and calculating, to enjoying it because it's mysterious and fun to play with people. Hmm... That seems in character for him right? He loves to mess with people. I'm just not sure if it should be for fun, yet, oh well, it's written. It's done. My hand hurts awful from this really long author's note. And I love you guys. Time for my new, end of chapter catch phrase!

Stay cool ;)

(Wasn't that exciting? I know I'm excited!)


	6. Palaver

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Harry Potter or Fullmetal Alchemist. I do own every Harry Potter book except for the fifth one, because apparently I lost it... Huh...

_**A/N:**_ So I was wondering to myself, earlier as I drew on my mirror with a dry erase marker that I found in my room, (As I had suddenly discovered that it is a very fun way to make a story plan!) just how long is this story going to be? I have a resolution, but it's an FMA resolution, and I realized that there needs to be both a FMA resolution as well as a Harry Potter resolution to accompany it. Edward's so strong of a character that I don't think he could even be in Harry's world for long without going out and trying to punch Voldemort in the face. Don't you agree? How about... I think I'll make one of those poll things, and you guys can tell me what you want me to do. Okay? Good.

* * *

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter 6**_

_**Palaver**_

He'd been doing a pretty awesome job of going about as unnoticed as was physically possible for him. It had been a few days, in which he had only punched two people, had kept up his silence, and had managed to not be questioned or attacked or kidnapped or stabbed or caught in some sort of an explosion. All in all, it was unnerving. The steady stream of eventful days that had been happening for the past few years of his life (most of his life, actually), with hardly a minute to stop and breathe, had not prepared him for this amount of _nothing._

In the mornings he had been waking relatively early, stretching extensively – hell if he was going to let himself get flabby and stiff, plus he needed to work out his injuries – while the ginger-haired boy he shared a room with watched with strange fascination. Making almost inaudible comments through a very sleepy mouth at some of the more difficult of the stretches. He did a routine of isometric exercises, and then left without a word to go to the kitchen.

That was where he spent most of his day. It seemed to be the center for information, conversations, and what appeared to be some sort of meetings. Some of which he was ushered out for, and others in which the subjects must have been less sensitive, or perhaps they had forgotten he was there, and he was allowed to stay – though occasionally during these he still got more than one nasty side glance. Mostly from the freak with the ugly blue eye that always seemed to be looking directly at him, even when the man was turned away.

It wasn't as if he understood much of anything they were speaking about anyway. Their conversations were littered with terminology he did not recognize but knew that he could recognize if he thought hard enough into his knowledge. Mentions of magic, always, and things he assumed accompanied this blasphemous practice.

Figured, the Truth probably had this world all saved up for him, just to cram all his ideals down his throat.

He tried his best to make a conscious effort to eat the food that Mrs. Weasley prepared for him, grateful for her kindness, but he was still unbearably dizzy, and his stomach couldn't quite handle the stress of digestion. He assumed that not all of his organs had completely healed from the incident with Kimblee (thinking about it made him cringe), as he'd only been able to seal enough of the wound with alchemy to halt the bleeding and fix the smallest of troubles inside. The doctor they'd seen after had been a tremendous help – despite not being able to do as much as he might have had the wound still been open, as he didn't want to cut it open once more – but he said that he should rest for at least a month or two, so that his systems would be fully functioning. Apparently that doctor hadn't heard that he had a world to save.

He knew he'd have to eat soon though. He was quickly losing weight and energy, he needed food and sleep, enough for two people, or he'd be malnourished and wouldn't heal at all.

The bushy-haired brunette had convinced them to let her go to what she referred to as a "Muggle store" and get him medicine during dinner after the first time he'd had an episode in front of her. She always seemed concerned for him, and he wasn't sure if he liked it. Vomiting was common, and somehow that Hermione girl always seemed to be able to find him when he became sick. It was nerve racking and ridiculous and made him extremely anxious that she so often saw him in that weak of a state, but she seemed genuinely nice as well, and he was grateful for her too. He supposed.

There had only been one time when they had been overly concerned by his presence. One morning, one of the red-headed twin boys had mentioned something that sounded very much like a comment on his stature, and he had reacted appropriately. Fred or George had been sporting a bloody, crooked nose directly after, vulgar words had been hanging on the edge of Edward's tongue, and he had the boy's collar gripped tight in his automail fist.

Honestly, he didn't know why they were so mad. Not only had he used his left hand, but he had pulled his punch as well. And didn't they have their damned magic sticks that could fix shit like that?

When Moody had pulled him violently away from the boy, it had only been instinct that had made his fist shoot out again. It connected with the side of his face that had a good eyes, and the man let go of him quickly. Ed had scrambled away, pushing a chair in the path he took and half-crouching behind the table.

"He looks like an animal, running away like that," Sirius commented, seemingly unconcerned with the two males who's hands were tight to their faces and who's eyes were glowering fiercely toward the boy. Edward didn't really mind that description, he'd been referred to as an animal in many a fight, _"...like a monkey," _rang through his mind before he leveled his gaze on Moody, who returned it with his own angry countenance without hesitation.

Remus turned from where he was glancing over George's now broken nose, hearing Molly fixing it behind him, "You're right Sirius, and his eyes, do you think he might..."

"Be a werewolf?" Sirius asked easily, finishing the other man's question, "I don't know."

"We'll find out soon enough I suppose,"

Ed nearly choked, did he just say _werewolf? _These people were fucking _crazy._

"He's a death eater that's what he is," Moody growled, one hand still clutching at his quickly bruising eyes socket, "he attacked me!"

"Look at the way he's reacting Alastor, he looks frightened more than anything," Sirius began walking toward Edward, who had bristled at the mention of fear. He was _not_ afraid. That was ridiculous.

Then Moody's magic stick was out and pointed in his direction, and he froze, there was a strange feeling in his chest, and it made him shiver as the cold traveled down his spine. A burst of light came from the stick and he jumped erratically to the side, while Remus and Sirius yelled out to Moody. The "spell" hit him in the left arm as he moved out of the way, and he felt a feeling very similar to being electrocuted shoot through the limb, and he gasped. The word _"Imperio" _still echoed around the room.

But now their eyes were all trained on him once more, "Did you feel that?"

"You did, didn't you?" It was Remus this time, and even Moody had quieted, a hush befalling the entire room. Only George broke the careful tension, a strange whimper emitting from his recently repaired face.

"Should we try it again?" Moody asked offhandedly, and Edward tensed on reflex when the man pointed his stick back in his direction. Hell no.

Remus and Sirius were quiet for much too long, seemingly contemplative of this very idea, and finally Sirius clenched his jaw and placed an abashed expression upon his scruffy visage, "Of course not!"

"Alastor! Please don't be ridiculous!" Molly amended with a shake of her head, although anger flashed in her eyes as well. She turned to him with a grimace, "Why don't you go upstairs."

Ed listened to her carefully concealed command without a second thought. He shouldn't have let his frustration get the best of him, but he had always been that way. Acting on impulse. First action, and then maybe whatever came next. Like thinking.

There was one person in the household who saw this occurrence as something entirely amusing rather than condemning, and that someone was Ron Weasley. Edward had found that although it seemed that Ron was rather squeamish, all together not at all physically fit enough to hold his own in a dangerous situation, and a bit of a sissy, he generally liked the boy. On the other hand, Ron had been considerably hesitant when around him so far. It appeared that this, however, was some sort of initiation for a friendship.

"You punched George in the face? You actually _punched George in the face?" _the red-head's words were barely audible between his fits of laughter, and he had to lean over and press his hands to his stomach to try to slow his guffaws, "That's just awesome, bloody awesome."

From that point on, Edward and Ron were friends. He at least thought so.

He'd never had any relationships with children his own age before, (he figured he was at least a ear or two older than the boy) and was not quite sure if it was a friendship or not. Nor was positive how to act toward Ron. Mutual respect had always worked toward adults on his part, but Ron was not an adult. He also chose to reign on in his silence, it was comfortable to know that he had at least a reasonable amount of control over his life here. So talking to the boy was out of the question.

He easily slipped back into the role of an impartial observer in the house. Ron spoke to him occasionally, but only so (he felt like he was talking to himself more often than not) and Hermione often took notice of him. She was very kind, but quite wary of him now that he had punched the twin. The twins all but ignored his presence entirely, which was good with Edward. He didn't need their smart ass attitudes anyway.

Upon discovering Ed looking through a large stack of books in a small room at the end of the hall one day, he breached some sort of boundary with the Hermione girl as well. The minute she had seen his eyes a light with curiosity her own had instantly morphed form fearful and uneasy to inspired and excited.

"You like to read!" the words left her mouth at such a high speed and volume that Edward was startled right into the air. He jumped, resisting the curse that had almost flown from his mouth. He could only look at her for a long moment, before nodding hesitantly. Even though it hadn't really been a question.

"Oh my goodness, have you ever read his novel _Red Brush?"_ she asked, pointing at the author's name on the spine of the book he had lifted form the table, "there are so many deep mentions concerning Muggle-born oppression and house elf cruelty in his context, he's really great –"

Edward had looked at her again, shaking his head, and she found herself blushing suddenly.

"It's very good," she commented lowly, looking down at her feet, ashamed of her sudden outburst, "it helped me a lot. I think it's one of the things that really inspired me to start S.P.E.W. – the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, if you're wondering – in my third year. Though hardly any good that did."

Ed had no idea what the hell she was talking about, but this was the most anyone had talked to him in a long time, and he felt a sudden need to have read the book. So that he would have had something he could say in return.

"I suppose I went about it all the wrong ways, though," Hermione started, before glancing upon the blonde and catching herself, "Oh, I'm so sorry! You probably wouldn't want to hear about it, um..." she floundered for words to say, and ended up pointing at a small red covered book on the other end of the room, "it's right there. You don't have to read it or anything though I just – you know what? I'll just go..."

But Ed _did_ want to hear about it. Very much so. He had been through so much and had always been mixed up in situations so adult, so over his head, that he'd been forced to mature so fast, too fast. This was something he'd never had. He'd never had to worry about something small and trivial, something that _he _wanted for _him, _something that was inconsequential and completely voluntary, but meaningful in the same way. It had always been _save the world,_ and _outsmart the ruler of everything, _and _how many arms does it take to get what I want. _It had never been something like _this. _And he wasn't gonna let her just leave. He wanted to know and she was going to fucking _tell him._

He tried to make some sort of a gesture that said she should continue, but she wasn't looking at him anymore. She turned shyly away and he felt an odd panic settle over him then, and he reached out his hands and at the same time he reached out his voice, because it was the only thing he could think of to do that would get her to stay here and tell him her stupid story.

"Wait, don't go, I want to hear about it."

When she turned around, slowly, because she could hardly dare to believe what she had just heard, she saw him walk over to the little red book and tuck it securely in the waist band of his pants. He turned to her then, pulled two chairs out from behind the dusty table, and nodded to her. She was so shocked and bewildered in that moment that it was all she could do to sit on that chair and tell him everything, and not just about S.P.E.W.

She wasn't sure what it was that came over her. She also wasn't sure if she hadn't only imagined his voice, warm and fiery and foreign in all the same burning ways his eyes were. Though it must have happened, for she doubted she would have been able to imagine it so thoroughly. Then she realized that he had said he _wanted to hear about it, _and so she had told him.

"...you could tell they didn't like me," she was saying, "looking back on it now. They thought I was a total snob, a nerd, but I so desperately wanted to be friends with them. And I considered them my friends long before they considered me theirs, I'm sure, and I think it wasn't until they saved me from the troll that they knew it..." she told him about how she had been petrified in her second year by a basilisk (he wasn't sure what that was, bu the word snake came up from somewhere in the back of his mind) and how it had been "the strangest feeling" not being able to move at all, no matter how much she'd tried or how much she wanted to, and how it had lasted so long but seemed like so short a time. Ed found that he could sympathize with this, he'd been in similar enough situations, although usually because of some great beam of steel through his stomach or other. She told him about all the teasing she had received from being born from "Muggles", which it as it was, appeared to be the term they used to refer to "non-magical" people (Ed thought that that was oppression in itself, they didn't give non-alchemists funny sounding titles) by calling her a "filthy mud-blood", among other things. And it occurred to Ed that if anyone made fun of him and his family like that he would rip out their spine and shove it up their ass. He admired her for sticking up for herself in her own mine. Self-control was something that he lacked.

"...and I had no idea why Victor Krum had such a weird infatuation with me. It sounds presumptuous when I say it, but really, he _watched _me _study. _And he did so all the time. It was really unnerving, but it was sort of nice to, to know that I wasn't a completely undesirable nerd." At this Edward had briefly humored the thought of asking her if _she_ could recite the periodic table of elements and the exact chemical makeup of each element listed, but was unsure as to whether or not it existed. "...he asked me to come to Bulgaria with him, and that was a little overwhelming. Harry had went through a lot that year, with the tri-wizard tournament and everything. That was when," she paused here, with a whispered, "Voldemort," before continuing on in her original tone, "returned. He killed Cedric Diggory, and Harry had to see it, and he was really shook up about it. We all were."

Ed wondered if it was the first time this "Harry" boy had seen someone die.

She trailed off with a look of sadness coming into her eyes, and he assumed they had neared the end of the conversation. He felt strangely relieved, to know something of the school life he had never had, although this school was certainly unlike any he may have attended. He felt indebted to her as well, equivalent exchange being the governing factor of his life, and searched for something to offer her in return.

"I'm sorry I made you listen to all of this," Hermione finally offered, frowning, and feeling a bit silly about the way she had just told this boy who was a stranger to her a good deal of her life's story. For a moment it had felt like he had been there only for her, someone to listen without just waiting for their turn to talk. Someone who had only spoken to her, and no one else. Someone who wouldn't judge.

Ed was in a conflict in his own mind. He was searching so hard for something frivolous and lighthearted like many of her stories had been, something to cheer the girl up. He found the task quite difficult however, it seemed that there weren't very many happy stories on the top of his mind.

"You shouldn't have to apologize," he finally admonished. They were hardly the words he had wanted, but it was good enough. Damn it all.

Then he fled the room, feeling all together like he had given up too much and not enough of himself at the same time.

* * *

_**A/N: **_I keep meaning to make the chapters longer, but then I just don't feeeeel like it. So, here's another one. And no, those of you who don't want this to be a Hermione x Ed thing, it's not, and for those of you who might have wanted it to be, well, they'll be good friends. Hermione just strikes me as the type of person Edward would trust, because despite his raging personality he finds some time in that head of his to admire qualities like modesty and kindness, and Hermione's a pretty generally nice character. She's very accepting. Yes?

Anyway, seems like Ed's not talking is starting to affect the other's minds too. Like Hermione getting really comfortable with him so quickly because she's never had someone listening to her so adamantly. Edward doesn't really notice he is, he just wants to hear about someone that's had life easy. Harry, Ron, and Hermione's life would be like a child's bedtime story to him, don't you think?

_Palaver: Empty talk._

This chapter wasn't as fun as all the vomiting and coughing up blood in the last one. Awe :( I'm discovering that it'll be difficult to maintain a constant state of injury and misery for Edward like I usually love to do, so I guess I can't. *sigh* Anyway, I need someone to ask a question to about the plot for the next few chapters, ifff you don't mind spoilers, message me or something! Thanks.

Stay cool ;) (right?)


	7. Influx

_**Disclaimer: **_I DON'T OWNNNN! AH!

_**A/N: **_Sorry for those of you who thought Hermione wouldn't squeal, for I truly believe that she would. I don't believe that she truly thinks of him as a human being that deserves respect yet, he's more like... some strange puzzle to her at the moment. That needs to be figured out.f

And... Anatidae, update like five times in return of this. It may not sound fair, but I say it is, so it is.

* * *

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter 7**_

_**Influx**_

"He what?" Ron shouted in surprise.

"He talked to me!" Hermione repeated with a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. It hadn't hit her until quite a bit after their conversation that she very much _hadn't _imagined him speaking to her. The gravity of it settling on her excited mind, "Twice!"

"What did he say?"

It was Ginny who asked, and Hermione instantly flushed in embarrassment, "Ah... I mentioned a book I had read, and how it had inspired me to start S.P.E.W. In my third year," (at this point Ron laughed and uttered a silent, _"spew,"_ which made it's way to Hermione's ears) she almost stopped her recount immediately, but she steeled herself, and continued, "so I started talking to him about it, but I felt like I was talking to myself, you know?" They nodded, both had attempted to talk to the mysterious boy, and although they hadn't _expected_ a reply, it had still felt to odd to go on for long, "Well, I was feeling silly for talking at all, and so I apologized and went to leave, and all the sudden I hear this voice go, _'Wait, don't go. I want to hear about it.'_"

Ron looked just about shocked out of his shoes, "Who would want to hear about _spew?"_

Hermione shot him a disapproving look and Ginny giggled, "We didn't necessarily talk only about S.P.E.W." she said, emphasis on each letter, "I started talking, and it was actually really nice. He didn't say anything, but you could tell he was really listening the whole time." Ginny was the only one listening at this point. Ron, who didn't understand what Hermione found so special about this _listening _thing – it wasn't hard to _listen_ – was waiting for his turn to talk.

"What else did he say?" Ron piped up, interrupting her and receiving another glare.

"I was getting there, Ronald, for heaven's sake!"she sighed in frustration and Ron's ears turned red in quiet anger and the usage of his full first name, "It was quiet for a long time after I was done talking, and then I felt ridiculous again. I kept thinking maybe I'd just _imagined_ he said something, because I hadn't _seen_ him talk. So I apologized for making him listen to all of that. He looked really confused for a while, and then he opened his mouth up and said, _'You shouldn't have to apologize.'_"

"Then he was gone, darted right out of the room." Hermione finished her retelling with a sharp slap of her hands on her thighs.

Ginny chuckled again, looking thoroughly excited, "What did his voice sound like?"

Hermione pondered this for a moment, recalling the adjectives that had swept into her mind upon hearing it, "Warm," she finally conceded, "foreign, and bold, and masculine, I suppose."

Ginny blushed and Ron rolled his eyes, "Well, if this conversation's going to take this sort of a turn I'm gonna go find 'im."

"Why?" Ginny wondered quickly.

"To get 'im ta talk to me too."

Before Hermione could inform Ron that he was being dumb, the door was already closed.

* * *

When Ron found the boy he was in an old bedroom that no one used anymore up on the second floor. He was sitting on the rotting wood panels beneath them, doing crunches, his arms crossed against his chest and his knees pressed against one another. Ron could only imagine how many he must have done, he tried to picture the voice Hermione had described coming out of his mouth, as he pulled his body up and said, _"...five-hundred-thousand-and-two..." _it seemed as if he were slightly out of breath, and when Ron entered the room he rolled onto his back and offered him a small wave.

"'ey," Ron returned, hands in his pockets. He watched the sweat on the boy's forehead before he pulled the collar of the sweater up over his features and wiped it away. The boy nodded toward him now, as if asking what he wanted, and Ron pressed his mouth into a straight line of thought.

"I 'eard you talked to 'Mione," he said as casually as he could, leaning against the wall.

The boy frowned, rolled his eyes, and then immediately rolled over into the starting position of a pushup. Ron noticed there was a little bit of what looked like blood on the floor, he shook his head.

"'ey! I thought we were mates!" the ginger-haired boy tried, letting out a little laugh. A sound came from the floor, sounding in the very much like a quick bark of laughter escaping the exhale of his body's strained position.

Ron scowled at this, watching the blonde lower his body so that it was parallel with the floor, and hold it there for several more seconds. It made his muscles ache to watch, he made push ups look a lot more complicated than Ron had ever perceived them to be, "I thought you were hurt," Ron quipped, eyes darting back to the small dark stain on the floor, "that can't possibly be helping."

Golden eyes looked up at him for a split second, before flashing to the door behind Ron and then returning to the grain of the wooden floor. Ron rolled his eyes, feeling very much like he had been trying to talk with a wall that didn't want him around, and turned to go for said door. "See ya," he mumbled stubbornly.

No reply came, and he shut the door, grumbling to himself.

Hermione was quick to chastise him later, "I doubt he wants you to _demand_ he speak with you!" she lectured upon his return.

"'e's in the other room doing bloody pushups!" Ron scowled, "didn't even want ta 'ear me out. Jerk."

"Did you bring up him talking with Hermione?" Ginny asked, sounding slightly angry.

"Of course."

"You're such an idiot!" Ginny let out, "Why would you say that? He's not going to say_ 'Oh, okay, if __**you**__ want me to talk, then I guess...' _no. Duh. Plus, what if he didn't want Hermione to tell us?"

Hermione squeaked at this, covering her mouth with her hands as if she could take back telling them about it.

Ron's scowl deepened, "Shut it, 'e's probably a nutter anyway, you saw 'im with the needle. And 'e punched George in the face."

Hermione swallowed, "it was so weird too, he punched him and Moody grabbed him and then he whipped around and punched Moody right in the face too. Then he scrambled away right over the chairs like some sort of frightened animal. I was worried about him being dangerous before, but now I think George must have said something to him. He looked pretty shook up."

"I wish I could have seen George's face," Ron admitted, eyes flashing.

Hermione scoffed, "He was crazy a few seconds ago and now you're back to being part of his fan-club," and after a second of thought, just for his sake, she added, "there was more than a bit of blood, and his nose was definitely not straight after."

Ron smiled, "Awesome."

* * *

While the children worried about who was going to get the next word out of the strange guest in their home, Molly Weasley had a million other things on her mind.

One of them being Harry Potter, who couldn't go through a single summer without getting into trouble to some extent. But really? A dementor attack? That was serious, and not at all Harry's fault, and that scared her. They could have lost him, his soul sucked away, stolen. It was a terrible thought.

Another qualm of her cluttered mind did revolve heavily around the boy of abject interest within the house. And around his eating habits mainly.

(She had been unbearably angry with the stranger after his assault on her son. However, after George had very unwillingly admitted to to, maybe, kind of, sorta insulting the boy she felt less furious. Sometimes her boys had it coming.)

The boy had some odd habits, and there seemed to be a routine to his day. Ron had told her that each morning when he awoke he found the said young man already dressed and performing what appeared to be _vigorous_ stretches, as well as a few odd exercises. He then proceeded to make his way to the long table of the kitchen, where he promptly refused breakfast as well as lunch, later picked at dinner, and simply listened. He sat there for most of the day. Often, lately, he read. But he still ate next to nothing and Ron and Ginny had told her that they find him excercizing around the house later in the day more than often.

"Somehow I don't figure all this work is gonna make 'im feel any better," Ron said with a snicker to her, and she gave him a sharp look – because he was right, and it was, _actually_, serious.

"Eat something," she'd commanded in her kindest you-listen-to-me-right-now tone, pointing a strict finger to the plate of food she had set before the boy. His nose wrinkled momentarily at the sight of the turkey and lettuce placed carefully between the two slices of wheat bread that had floated down onto the table before him. She watched as he slowly took it apart, eating a few small pieces but nothing more, and thought it was at least good that he tried. He always listened to her.

It bothered her that she had nothing to call him.

When the order set out to retrieve harry she felt immensely relieved, and when he arrived she felt even more so. She watched his dark-emerald eyes, familiar and well-missed, delve into the kitchen where they would meet – the order. The boy was not in there, in fact, she had sent Ron off to find him only moments ago. "No time," she'd exclaimed, turning him towards the stairs and explaining to him where the room was that he would be sharing with Ron...

… and the boy.

* * *

Edward watched as Hermione paced a rut into the floor of his and Ron's room. He wanted to hold out his hand, grab her shoulder, and demand that she _calm the hell down_ for a fucking _minute_, but he sat quietly on his own bed instead, watching her carefully. Ron sat on his own bed and watched the door instead, his fingers tapping impatiently against the wood of the headboard, and Ed felt as if he could scream. Anymore of this nervous, tapping, pacing, waiting, watching, and god damn it all he was going to explode!

Then, as if an answer to his vehemently released mental prayers – or not, he wasn't praying, he reminded himself – "Harry" walked in.

The boy was relatively tall, pale-skinned, with dark, messy hair in a boyish crop. His green eyes didn't have a chance to glance about the room, because his slim, lanky form was soon embraced by a certain, quite distraught, Hermione Granger.

"Harry!" she sounded so relieved that he almost felt some sort of strange concern for the boy.

The next few minutes consisted of him being very much ignored – which was admittedly preferable – one mention of "dementors", and an argument that seemed very one-sided. "Harry" had entered the room and immediately barked out a demand to know why he hadn't heard a "scrap of news" from them all summer, quite heatedly. Hermione had began explaining when he had left the room, honestly none of this concerned him. He felt like he was intruding on something personal to them.

It was terribly easy to make himself scarce, with the Potter boy's arrival, it seemed that they had mostly forgotten about him. He was glad he wasn't the flavor of the month anymore.

He wouldn't have even spoke to the girl if he had known it was going to launch into some sort of competition between them all. (He would have spoken to all of them if it hadn't, it was becoming tiring to be silent, however, he was spiteful, by nature, and the competition wasn't only for them.)

Damn them all to hell if they thought he was going to give in to that.

_"Don't worry Mistress, Kreacher is here, Kreacher won't let those filthy, traitorous devils do anything to –"_

"Kreacher." Edward said dryly, looking down at the strange being, whose voice had stopped immediately after hearing his name. He was a stunted thing, small and gangly, warped and ugly, old and miserable, hateful, spiteful. A house-elf, he had learned, and thought vaguely of the way Hermione wanted to protect them. He'd read the book that she had told him about.

Glancing up at the petrified forms of past house-elves framing the hallway, Edward was not surprised at all that Kreacher was the way he is.

The small creature had avoided his presence since he had arrived at the house, and Edward watched now as the usually still body shook with the tell-tale signs of fear. His brows pulled together in confusion, "Looks clean," he commented, running his finger across the bottom of the picture frame. At this Kreacher cringed, and he could have sworn he heard a frightened gasp from behind the curtain, "Good job."

Then he walked away, continuing his trek up the stairs, _"Thank you... Sir..." _he heard from behind him, voice quavering with terror. He shook his head. So odd.

* * *

Hermione found him after dinner, in the bathroom, bile and blood in the porcelain bowel he was crouched before. She wordlessly took her place by his side, holding his long bangs away from his face and rubbing small circles on the small of his back.

"Thanks," he offered quietly later, after he had caught his breath and drank a glass of water.

Hermione's mouth pulled up into a smile before she could even consider the movement. _Go to hell, Ronald, _she thought, _look who he decides to talk to. Again. Can I win twice?_

"I read the book," the words that left his mouth were louder now, more assured. She liked the sound of it.

"You did?" she asked, sitting beside him on the tiled floor and leaning her back against the tub.

"I read it twice," he mumbled, "it was well-written."

"I'm glad you liked it," she said with another smile, and he gave the smallest expression to match it in return, before suddenly launching himself onto his feet and fleeing the room.

"Hold on," Hermione spoke aloud to herself a moment later, "twice? Already?"

* * *

Ron sat down on the bed in his room with a sigh, thinking of cats and how much he despised Crookshanks in particular. Hermione had opted not to talk to him for the rest of the day, but it wasn't his fault if he had tried to kick the bloody thing. It was obviously the _cat's _fault, like most things, she just couldn't see it.

"Cats," he let out with a unsuppressed shudder.

Harry's dark brows pulled together in confusion, and he stood motionless in the doorway. His mouth was partially open as if he wanted to say something, but his finger was held up in a "quiet" gesture.

"There was another boy here earlier."

Ron had almost forgotten completely! He so often tended to fade into the background of things, that he hadn't even crossed his mind since Harry had arrived. Now that he thought about it, where _was _the mysterious boy? Thinking back, he was almost sure he had been with them when Harry had come. When did he leave?

"We don't know his name, he doesn't talk to us," Ron began, launching into a full-on epic tale of the discover of the boy ("Blood on the walls, ceilings, flying through the air! Just like this. No. Harry! Watch, I'm trying to show you!"), finding him in the bathroom stitching his wounds back up again ("It was the second coldest night of my life..."), he explained in great detail what he _thought_ was the exact way things had happened when the boy had punched George _and_ Moody in the face (even though he hadn't been there), and then about how he most certainly_ could _talk. He had spoke to Hermione, actually ("She claims, thought I hadn't been there, so she could just be lying ta make me mad.") and their bet as to who could get him to talk to them next. Harry listened to all of this very adamantly, with only the occasional eye-roll.

"Where is he?" he asked when Ron was, mostly, finished with the story.

"Who knows?" Ron shrugged, "'m always worried 'e's in the bathroom shovin' sharp things in 'is chest," Ron attempted to joke, "crazy git."

* * *

Harry was startled awake by the sound of the door slamming, a pillar of light flashing across his face before he was bathed in darkness once more. Footsteps sounded across the wood floor and the rustle of sheets were heard as the boy went straight for his bed. Harry reached over and flipped on the small lamp that sat atop his beside table, casting the room in a dim wash of electricity. He looked to check if Ron had woke, and found the red-head with a wide open mouth, laying half-on and half-off his bed, a bead of drool trekking its way across his face and a few good snores escaping his throat.

When he turned to look at the subject of his original intentions when turning the light on, he was surprised at what he found. There was the boy – who he had not gotten a proper look at when he had arrived – bright golden eyes like fire in the dull light, blond hair braided down his back and wild, golden bangs framing his face. He was out of bed, standing only a few feet away from Harry, in a position that looked very much ass if he were ready to attack, or be attacked, for that matter.

Harry could only stare at him for a long time, words deceiving him, not even bothering to show themselves in his thoughts. The boy did not move, only stood in the same stance until Ron let out an excruciatingly loud snore, that ripped through the tension in the air like a knife through butter. The blonde visibly relaxed after that sobering noise, dropping his arms to his sides and taking a step toward the green-eyed boy.

Harry flinched when the boy offered his hand forward (he could swear he saw a gin flit across the young man's face at this, however briefly) before recognizing the gesture as a handshake, a formal greeting, and feeling silly at his initial reaction. He raised his right hand to return it, but realized with only a bit of confusion that he was holding out his _left_. Harry quickly switched hands and grabbed a hold of the boy's gloved greeting.

"Hello, I'm Harry," he introduced himself, resisting a scowl and the strength in the other boy's grip, ouch, "I'm sorry I didn't, well, acknowledge your presence earlier."

The boy released his hand, nodding his head and turning around. He walked back toward his own bed with a very limber, cat-like stretch of his entire body, and a loud yawn that overcame his entire face.

Harry frowned and thought back to Ron's words, _"...he doesn't talk to us..."_. He still felt as if it was unfair that he had given his name and received only acknowledgment in return. But being angry was no first impression to leave with someone who it seemed everyone was sure they should be careful around.

"What's yours?" Harry ventured, taking a friendly approach.

The young man walked slowly over to his bedside again, and Harry almost thought he would answer. Then, abruptly, he leaned over and flipped off the lamp.

Not before gifting Harry with a wry, devious barring of teeth. He laughed at the shock on Harry's face as soon as the darkness surrounded them, grinning pleasantly.

* * *

_**A/N: **_Cue, Harry arrival. Also, Ron just can't let the whole stitches thing go, can he? Of course not, he thinks Muggles are silly! ;)

_Influx – flow, rush, as per something arriving or coming._

Um... Yep. Review if you love me, and you do, don't you? Good.


	8. Onus

_**A/N: **_I'm watching Order of the Phoenix right now. It was on TV while I was typing this. I love Fred. Why did he have to die? *sob*

I also fixed the excercizing, exorcizing thing in the last chapter. Damn you spell check! Die! (Although I considered keeping it, on the offchance I'd get more funny reviews about it. Haha)

* * *

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter Eight**_

_**Onus**_

Edward found himself feeling very much indebted to these people.

Equivalent Exchange was poking and prodding parts of him he couldn't even reach to itch the feeling away. Even though he had a strong feeling that he was being kept here against his will (the word _prisoner_ may have came up in his thoughts more than once) they had still been needlessly kind to him. Especially the woman, Molly, and the Hermione girl. Who had both taken it upon themselves to mother him at every given opportunity.

So he spoke to them, feeling that expressing his gratitude in the form of words (which were apparently in popular demand) was the least he could do. He had only muttered quiet, "Thank you"'s and the like to Molly Weasley, but Hermione was an entirely different kettle of fish. She was less unnerving in that when she did dote on him, she _didn't_ remind him at all of his mother. He found himself trusting her for whatever reason, and he didn't really give a damn what the reason was.

They met to talk in the room in which they had first spoken to one another, when she had willingly offered up a great deal of her life's story. He had listened carefully, honestly intrigued by the prospect of a child's life. He had never had the chance to be a teenager. His life was chronologically ordered: birth, abandonment, grade school – which was very boring, as he was twice as smart as all the other kids – , orphaning, child abuse, mistake and murder, dismemberment, surgery, relearning to walk, relearning to use his hands, arson, becoming homeless, adulthood.

And adulthood had happened at age twelve.

He didn't even want to go into the detailed list of things. Plus, that was only the beginning of the list.

"What's your name?" she asked the second time they met there, her brown eyes imploring in a less than casual manner.

He would have answered her, but at this point in time, the mystery aspect was actually becoming increasingly amusing. He only smiled at her and offered with a shrug, "What do I look like?"

Hermione thought about this for a long time, the silence between them strangely comfortable, "You know what? I just don't know. Not a single thing I can think of seems to fit."

Edward frowned, a little disappointed, "Call me whatever you like," he'd reasoned, yawning and leaning back in his hard chair, "I read the book again?"

"Again?" Hermione asked, slightly bewildered.

Ed looked to the side of the room, watching the dust in the light of the window, "Well, yes. It's not a very long book, and there were a few things I still didn't quite understand," admittedly, there were much more than a few things. It was much closer to everything.

"Not a very long book? It's three-hundred pages and the writing is small, not to mention Pallio uses such complex vocabulary... It took me two weeks to read." Hermione said, not entirely believing he had read the book as many times as he claimed he had.

Ed didn't mention the fact that it wasn't the only book he had read in the week and a half he had been here. Nor did he mention that it had taken him less than a day to make his way through the piece of literature. He didn't want to wound her pride, as he noted that she considered herself quite an accomplished bookworm. She wouldn't understand that it was simply because he was a fucking genius. His intelligence level most likely rivaled that of any other living person in the entire world – his or hers. Especially when he chose to tap into the knowledge that had been unwillingly administered to him. (He had already been a child prodigy, having the Truth about the entire universe shoved into his head hadn't made that any less true.)

"He's alright," Ed commented, "although I think he's a hypocrite. He doesn't _mean_ to be, but – if I understand things correctly – he seems to be against Muggle-born witch and wizard oppression..."

(He felt quite ridiculous saying all these things.)

"...but at the same time much of what he says seems as if it would be oppressive to who are non-magic, the "Muggles". Actually, labeling them with such a funny sounding name would probably be insulting. If anyone called me a "Muggle" I'd probably break their face."

Hermione, despite being quite interested in his explanation, was caught by those last two sentences – though she chose to ignore the "break their face" comment (which was accompanied by his fist smacking into his palm), "You hadn't known what a Muggle was?"

Then he was gone. Just got up and walked out. Hermione had poured over this for quite some time, puzzled, and had also been afraid that she had inadvertently lost the trust that he had given solely to her.

She was relieved to find him in the room the next day, after lunch, waiting for her in the same, uncomfortable chair.

* * *

Harry chose not to partake in the "I'll get the boy to talk to me before you," bet. Rather, he chose to resent the stranger. Like all things that were a mystery to him, he wanted desperately to know about him. The fact that he didn't, and he couldn't seem to figure anything out either, made him feel as if everyone was plotting against him. Still keeping secrets from him because none of them realized that he had a _right to know..._

(about Voldemort, about the boy, about everything!)

… and it frustrated him to no end. He wasn't a child and he didn't need to be babied by the lot of them.

He found himself strangely angered by Ron and Hermione as well. They seemed quite … chummy with him and it bothered Harry. They had _no idea_ who he was. He could be a death eater, waiting to kill them all in their sleep. He could be _anyone_.

Ron talked to the silent boy more and more often, maybe it was because he knew he was being _listened _to, or maybe is was something else, but the boy never responded. He did acknowledge his words though, nods and even the occasional, but very rare, "mhmm"'s escaped him – which Ron tried to claim to the others later than these noises entitled him to being the winner of their competition. Hermione was always off somewhere with him after lunch time, and Harry suspected that the boy was _talking_ to her. Ron had told him of her informing them that he had, in fact, done so in the past. Ron seemed impartial to this, though he very much insisted that he wished she would convince the boy to talk to _him._ After all, they were _mates_, weren't they?

The boy always seemed to be somewhere, _listening. _When he sat and observed, looking so out-of-place and yet fading into the background at the same time, it was less like he was simply listening and more as if he were _eavesdropping._ And even though Harry had done his fair share of eavesdropping in the past, this still felt unbearably _criminal_ to him. Why did no one else seem to think so? (Moody thought so. But honestly, Moody had enough paranoia to fuel a small country.)

When he wasn't lurking around and wordlessly intruding on other people's conversations, he was always off doing God-knows-what. So far, as far as Harry had seen at the very least: exercising, writing something (in what certainly didn't look like English), reading (a different book every time), doing _whatever_ in the bathroom (something that took him a very long time indeed) and more recently _talking_ with _Kreacher – _and more than once_!_ He hadn't come to witness this scene quick enough to hear what was being said, only saw the boy's lips moving and his hands pulling through the air to illustrate his words. Kreacher had replying hastily, and with a very low bow (and a look of terror?) he had scrambled off.

The worst part was that he simply _didn't_ _know_ what to think about all of it.

* * *

"'ey mate, bloody hell, how do you do that?" Ron had woken earlier than usual, hoping to catch the boy before he was newly dressed and ready for the day, but it seemed he had failed. The young man's hair was already in a wet braid that had seeped water through the sweater he had donned, white and long-sleeved, and a pair of nice dark brown trousers and black socks, as well as a pair of white gloves (and where was he getting those?). He was standing beside his bed, hands placed on the wall above his head as well, propped against the flat surface and straightened out in a stretch that made Ron visibly cringe. The blonde offered him a small glance, before dropping the limb and proceeding to _show_ him how he did it by placing his opposite leg in the same position instead. He slowly moved closer to the wall, keeping his body straight and reaching closer to the wall, keeping his body straight and reaching a seemingly impossible position. Ron held his breath.

This was maintained for two, whole, painful to watch minutes, before the boy dropped his leg with a contented sigh.

Ron removed himself from his bed and sat on the floor beside the boy's feet.

"This is the part where you sit down and stretch, right?" he asked, used to the routine by now, "Well, show me how."

The boy looked at him with an incredulous expression, before falling to the floor graciously with a quite _thump_ beside Ron, and launched into a rather complicated leg stretch, motioning with his hand for Ron to follow his lead. Ron could only stare, bewildered, at him for a long time, before the look of growing frustration on the boy's face convinced him to attempt the stretch as well.

"Ouch," Ron complained, his hands pulling on his knee and trying to force his leg into the same position as the boy's. Who was currently moving his limb even further to the side without the aid of either hands, "Ouch!" Ron scowled, "Ow!" He grit his teeth and pushed harder, "Ouch, hell, this is dumb."

The boy uttered a string of words in what sounded like an entirely different language that Ron couldn't even begin to catch, rolling his eyes.

* * *

Hermione had informed them all over lunch the next day that _"He"_, the boy, wanted to be taken to a "Muggle library, thank you very much,", and she thought it was a brilliant idea. She'd asked if Harry and Ron could come along, as there was one down the street a few blocks...

(and Moody was out doing who-knows-what, which meant that they might be able to convince the others to let them go)

…they would all bring their wands just in case, and, if it was _really _necessary, she supposed Tonks could come along to protect them. Tonks had immediately liked the idea, not the destination, while the rest of the room, by majority, disliked it. The laying of a very intricate guilt trip that Ron didn't quite understand began to take place, and before he really even knew it, they were going.

He and Harry seemed to have what consisted of no choice at all in the matter, as Harry tried to protest but was shot a scathingly disapproving glare. Ron was silent, not wanting a look of his own, but exchanged dreading glances with his dark-haired best friend.

He caught the blonde boy watching them carefully, and he shot him a small, nervous smile. It was not returned, but he could have swore he saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Every reaction felt like a victory with the strange boy that Hermione had recently created another game with, a sort of guessing game they had apparently agreed on, after his telling her to "call him whatever she wanted" when she inquired as to his name once more. Today, after a particularly embarrassing game of chess on Hermione's part, (she had been ranting and raving about the _horror_ of it for hours) She had taken to calling him "Rook". Later, Ron knew, he would shake his head at her, pull a face, and whisper something ever so quietly in her ear and she'd put for a moment before thinking about what name she would guess the next day. He'd even joined in a few times, guessing names and referring to him as such.

"Have you ever ate at a Muggle restaurant?" Arthur inquired, as these things were a common topic with him, and he had been discussing the strange order of things within them to his wife, looking over at the boy. They were all still unsure as to exactly what he was, as well.

He nodded, before pushing his still mostly-full plate away and rising form the table. He strode out of the room with this, and Ron sighed in exasperation.

"Can we not at least 'ave a one-sided conversation with 'im? Bloody nut."

* * *

_**A/N: **_Yay! Boring chapter! Next one is too! And then after that... ACTION!

_Onus - Burden_


	9. Laconic

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not, don't I not?

_**A/N: **_Okay, I got tons of sweet ass reviews. There's a few things I have to work on, (thanks so much everyone who point things out! It means you care! Hugs~ ) and one of them includes going back and changing the amount of time that Hermione took to read the book. Yes, two weeks is unreasonable for any self-respecting book work. I'm ashamed of myself for putting that in there.

Alll_SO _I want to make it clear that I like Harry. Actually I _love_ Harry, Harry truly is a horribly tortured soul, and a very strong person. Isn't he darling? However, in the beginning of the Order of the Phoenix, well, even I think he's a little bit of a brat. (even if it is for an okay reason) Annnnnnnddddd! I love Fred so much! I'm so depressed for the second part of the seventh movie to come out, and it's not even coming out yet! But I'm thinking ahead, and it's HORRIFIC.

* * *

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter Nine**_

_**Laconic**_

Ron was waiting, just waiting, for something to make this little escapade go horribly wrong.

Something always seemed to happen to make simple things like walking on the street go terribly awry. (Death-eater attacks, dark wizards, dementors, whatever – ) He had no doubt in his mind that when they stepped out the doorway – possibly even before they do so – they would be dropping themselves into a boiling pot of pure danger. Without fail. They hadn't even left yet, and he was already waiting for You-Know-Who to come through the door of his bedroom and try to kill them.

"What's got you all on edge?" Harry asked, with only a hint of bitterness in his tone. Ron successfully ignored it, he had a right to be angry after all.

"I'm half waitin' for Moody to jump out an' slap us for bein' idiots any minute now," Ron mumbled, his blue eyes darting from side to side to help get his point across.

Harry chuckled, "I know what you mean Ron, this is a stupid idea. How did we let her drag us into this in the first place?"

"We can't leave 'er and Tonks all alone with 'im anyway, you know?"

"Ron, I'm sure Tonks can take care of herself better than either of us could."

Ron smiled, scoffing in mock offense, "No one's safe if I'm not around, mate. You should know that!"

Harry laughed and stood, stretching out his lanky body with a yawn. His fingers flew up to his face reflexively to push his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose, "We'd better get down there, Hermione will throw a fit if we aren't ready to go."

Ron shrugged, pulling a tee-shirt on over his gray tank top he had slept in – and never changed out of, as it was just after lunchtime, and a considerable amount of effort was required to do so. He followed his dark-haired best friend from his bedroom, clumping reluctantly down the stairs with a deep-set frown pulled across his face. An anxious feeling of worry sank deep into his stomach again, laying at the bottom like a rock. He thought with only a bit a humor that he was the friend that stood one foot behind, and said, "Guys, I don't think this is a good idea," but goes along with it anyway. That was usually the friend who was right ninety-nine percent of the time. He swallowed. Hermione stood near the doorway with the two other library-goers flanking her on the sides. The boy was closest to the door, eyes wondering toward the wood with a sort of longing, and Tonks stood on the left, in turn eying said boy warily. A happy grin spread across her face when she saw them.

"Wotcher Ron, Harry, you ready?"

Ron repeated his shrug, satisfied, and clearly satisfied, Tonks grabbed a hold of the handle of the door and pulled It open. Ron winced, expecting a boggart or giant spider to burst inside, and relaxed only partially when none came. Moody hadn't show up yet either.

He was going to be so mad when he found out about this.

"Come on Ron, what's the hold-up?" Hermione pouted from the sidewalk outside, "Hurry up!"

Harry passed beside him, patting him roughly on the shoulder and walking past the not-so-patiently waiting girl at the bottom of the stairs, "Come on Ron, she's right."

Ron shook his head, grumbling beneath his breath and turning to close the door that was hanging ajar behind him. He strode down the small set of steps and followed after the other three as they quickly made their way to the other side of the street, taking care to make sure there were no Muggles that could see them emerge. He fell into the brisk walk that Hermione had set for a pace, and watching the boy curiously. He was looking around as if everything was very new to him, he must not be from around here.

* * *

Edward instantly felt better upon being outside. The fresh air that he was so used to, that he inhabited for all of his day and often times his nights as well bombarded him with a sense of comfort as well as a renewed sense of determination. There was carbon in the air, he could feel it all around him. Much more plentiful than it had been back home. His nose twitched with the scent of it, of the oxygen and hydrogen it was bonded with. His fingers itched to meld it and change it, create bonds and reconstruct, to destroy and rebuild. There was so much iron in the buildings that lined the road. Trace amounts of granite screaming from the ground beneath his feet. He wanted to transmute something, _anything. _He yearned for it, for something _huge _and _detailed_ and _his. _Alchemy was his passion, his addiction, he felt so deprived of it. Fuck the Truth. He missed Amestris (However encased in abysmal, terrifyingly complex omnipotent power-struggles it had been. He had punched a god damn hole through all of that shit. It would be perfect now, as long as he had Al.) He missed Al.

He missed Al _so much._

A wave of guilt swept over him so quickly that he must have physically paled. He felt sick. He was so disgusted by himself. So suddenly conscious of every short-coming he possessed. Even his lack of limbs had screwed something over for Alphonse. He wasn't even a whole person, he should have known offering up his own body and soul wouldn't have been enough for Alphonse's. How could he even _assume _that his soul would be anywhere near the worth of his brother's. His soul was damned, and Al's was so pure, so wonderful. It wasn't even right to compare the two, and he felt ashamed for even doing so. He was so ridiculous, suck a fuck-up, and still herehe was, alive and whole_, _while Al was stuck somewhere between everything. Feeling god-knows-what, anguish, loneliness, _hate. _Surely, if he hadn't managed to hate his older brother before, he hated him now. It didn't matter, Ed would do it, he'd fix everything.

He'd been reading about this "magic" stuff, and felt very much as if he'd been kicked in the groin. It was a really nice the way they ignored the concept of equivalent exchange almost entirely, the way the skirted entirely around the law of natural providence, not even brushing shoulders with it as they walked by, and the law of conservation of matter, of course not. Many of the books were written by pompous people – you could tell easily by the tone of the writing, and Edward was an expert on pin-pointing arrogance – who believed the world revolved mostly around them. "All is one, one is all." ? Screw that, they had a fancy stick that they could wave around like a lunatic and say funny words and do "magic". Good for them. They could all go to hell for all he cared.

Of course he'd put him somewhere like this. Of _course._

He had no right to complain though, and it _sickened _him, it absolutely _sickened him_, that he would. That he _just _had.

"Are you okay?" Hermione's voice permeated his thoughts and for a whole second he struggled with the nod he had saved up for such occasions. Of course he was okay. Alone. Screwed. Hopeless. In pain. But he was alive, he existed here. That was more than he deserved.

"You look a little pale mate, you sure?" Ron now. This was weird. Why did they care enough to ask? It was his business, and there was no need to be nosy. He resisted a _"piss off" _that bit at his tongue.

Harry didn't say a word their entire walk, despite Tonks attempting to start up a conversation with him multiple times. Ed didn't get it, if he didn't want to talk then they should just leave him the hell alone. He obviously had something stuck up hiss ass, and it was his own business when and where he wanted to pull it out and get over it.

It only took five minutes for both the boys and Tonks as well to become unbearably bored. Ed was confused, their was an entire library of books and they couldn't find a _single thing_ they wanted to read about? Somehow he found this quite unbelievable, though he did wonder idly if Ron could even read.

As for his own reading, it had taken quite a few books to even get close to comfortable with the amount of thought that it took to read the strange language these books were written in. There were many words he was sure wouldn't even exist in Amestris, let alone any surrounding country, as they and their respective meanings were utter nonsense. (A dictionary he found revealed them as such.) It was much like puzzling out a code, except there was no logical process. He already knew the answer, he just had to find it. Reach down deep in his mind and pull it out and put it to use. Occasionally he had trouble understanding, when he'd forget, or lose focus. Nothing would make sense anymore, and he'd pull his eyebrows together and think. _Hard. _Until he found the words that he needed. It was helping him, he supposed, he was beginning to actually know the language. Without having the strange, overwhelming sense that he was someone else, like this wasn't his, every time he discovered that he knew something he really shouldn't. As he had never learned.

He found his voice had a strange accent to it when he spoke their language. It sounded almost correct to him, only strange in the words he was speaking, as his speech patterns had seemed to remain true to Amestrian mannerisms. But compared to the way they spoke, he sounded quite silly. Hermione had asked him where he had came from, said she couldn't recognize his accent. He'd dealt with this the same way that he'd dealt with every other serious question that the girl had tossed his way. He got up and stalked out. Fuck that. He didn't have to tell her anything.

The accent bothered him to no end after that.

Honestly, he was beginning to bore with this odd game of silence. Though, if you counted all the conversations he'd held with Hermione, despite being largely one-sided, it really wasn't much of a game at all. And if it was, then either Hermione had won, or he had lost. He wasn't sure, he didn't make up the rules, though he had a great suspicion that Ron was the one who did. (And that he was avidly competing for second place.)

Tonks, as it appeared she was a decidedly unfit individual for the job she had been assigned – Ed wasn't dumb, he knew he was being contained, watched – was a fidgety person. Beyond becoming bored and erupting with the statement, "This is boring," several times, informing them so, she also could not condemn herself to any further boredom, it seemed. There was a small cafe down the block and she announced that she was going there to go get herself a sandwich, but she'd be _right back, _and _don't you four go anywhere without me._

Where would he go? He had no idea where he was in any sense at all, not even geographically, not even metaphorically. What was this world called? Was London all there was? Or was London just one city? London didn't sound like something he would name a country or a universe... He could be in some strange cliff top land for all he knew and never really realize it. Maybe one day he'd get out and just walk over the edge on accident. Amestris was gone. He was lost.

* * *

Ron watched as the strange boy devoured books. He simply _devoured _them, there was no other word for it. If he had unhinged his jaw and swallowed the books whole it may have effected him even less than this had. How could _anyone_ read that quickly?

"Harry, d'ya think Moody'll find out about this little trip?" he wondered idly, snapping a small leather bound book open and closed over and over again. Hermione's eyes glowered at him, and he shushed his busy hands quickly.

"Of course he will Ron, and we'll have hell to pay for it," he started whispering after that, though the blonde was so absorbed in his book that he might not have heard Harry speaking of him even if he shouted, "is he a Muggle then? Is that why we're here? Why would the order keep a _Muggle_ in the house? Let him know about magic? Why can't they just _obliviate _him and drop him off somewhere?"

Ron frowned slightly at this, and at the answer he was forced to give, "Dumbledore," he began, watching as Harry violently rolled his eyes in frustration, "wants to keep 'im around. Apparently, 'e's immune to magic. Plus, 'e just showed up on the bloody doorstep; of a magical house! What would you think about that?"

Harry contemplated this for a long moment, "How _did_ he end up at the house?" he pondered aloud, receiving a needless shrug from Ron, "what if Voldemort sent him and he's a spy or he's supposed to kill me? What then?"

"Lupin thinks that if 'e knew where the Order was meetin' and where you were 'e wouldn't be sendin' a _spy_," Ron whispered back, feeling not completely convinced himself, but also feeling a strange need to defend the boy, "'e hasn't seemed bad at all so far."

"You don't even know his _name. _For Christ's sake Ron, he could kill you in your sleep! You're in the same room!" Harry hissed, Ron wasn't sure whether Harry meant the words or not. He'd been all together spiteful since he arrived. He was upset.

(He had a right to be, but not at them, not at the strange boy either.)

"Don't you think if 'e was goin' ta do somethin' 'e would have already done it?" Ron asked, looking toward said young man quickly, "Why would 'e wait?"

"I don't know," Harry reasoned, "maybe he's trying to get one of us alone."

Ron suddenly felt like this trip to the library had a few more potential threats to add to the list. His freckles stretched out across his cheeks when his eyes widened, "Blimey! D'ya think so, Harry?"

Harry shrugged, and went back to observing the spines of the books. Ron didn't bother, he'd never been to a Muggle shop like this before, and he wasn't necessarily comfortable here. He wasn't really the avid reader either. He settled on watching the blonde again, nervously, as he searched rapidly through the surrounding volumes. Ron wondered if he was looking forsomething, it looked like he was. What could he be looking for?

* * *

Tonks' idea of "being right back" could have meant anything really, but it seemed it didn't mean what the words meant. She didn't come right back, and when it finally came to pass that ever _Hermione_ could occupy herself no longer (the boy was still attacking the library) they all agreed that they would just leave. Though they weren't sure whether or not they should check the cafe for Tonks first. Ron thought it was a bad idea, it would be better if they got home fast. Tonks would look for them there first anyway, when she discovered they had left. So, after Hermione's many attempts to get the boy's attention, they finally fond his eyes on them.

"Did you find anything?" Hermione asked, and Ron wondered if she knew what it was that he was looking for. He also thought it was a dumb question, as there were so many books piled up around him that he certainly must have.

He shook his head, his mouth pulling into a scowl that was quickly becoming known to all of them, and Ron was taken aback once more. Did that mean all of this was a waste of time?

(And if it hadn't been a waste of time to start out with, then what was he _looking _for?"

"Let's go then," Harry piped up, nodding toward the door and giving the librarian an apologetic smile. She seemed slightly irritated by the length of their presence (and by the disorder the strange boy had managed to create).

Hermione and the boy began to replace many of the books on the shelves, and Ron wondered over to help simply because ti would be quicker if he did so. He noticed that the boy had somehow managed to locate the oldest books in the library, dusty tomes that had faded titles and yellowed pages, books that smelled musty and like moths and old ladies.

Ron shivered.

"It's getting dark out," Harry reasoned.

"We're closing," the librarian admonished.

"We're leaving," Ron shot back, annoyed.

"Come on," Hermione grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward the doorway, shooting him a look that clearly said _"Shut it."_. She opened the door and ushered each boy out in front of her before closing the library off from the night. The boy looked around for only a second before heading back the way they came. That was odd, it had seemed before as if he'd been completely new to the route they had traveled. Had he always known where the house was, had he found is own way there, injured? Or had he just... remembered?

Harry's eyes were filled with suspicion, and he followed the blonde carefully, making sure to stay at a relatively safe distance – with Hermione between himself and the boy.

Ron knew that this was wrong. They couldn't do something so simple without _anything_ happening to them. It was simply unheard of.

Nothing might have happened, if Harry hadn't suddenly found it extremely irritating to be lead by the stranger.

"Let's go this way," Harry beckoned them to the right, "it's quicker."

* * *

_**A/N: **_So in response to the blond/blonde thing. I don't think I can do it, if you don't mind, for some reason without the e in it the word blonde makes me feel like puking! It's an ugly word, me thinks, without the extra vowelish flair!

_Laconic: using or marked by the use of a minimum of words._

Muahaha! Ed's reading better than Hermione and he thinks he's been having troubles reading. I love life.

I probably need to make Harry _calm down. _And I will, promise. Just don't know when yet! I kind of like 'im angsty, as I like everything better with angst. I'm currently trying to think of ways to give this story an unhappy ending, but I'm failing, as none of them provide enough closure... :(


	10. Cabal

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Harry Potter or Fullmetal Alchemist.

_**A/N: **_I promised you guys action, yeah. But are you getting any, no. Not really. So, whenever I say _anything_ there's like a eighty-five percent chance that it could possibly be a lie (whether purposely told, or accidentally) and thus, there is no action in this chapter. Next chapter! For reals!

_**

* * *

**_

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter 10**_

_**Cabal**_

Ron knew instantly that a dark alleyway was a bad idea. No matter how cliché the assumption was in general, it still held fast. Good things just don't happen in places like that.

"Come on Ron," Harry sounded exasperated, "I'm sure no spiders are going to get you."

The strange boy eyed the alley carefully, tilting his head to the side and narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Ron found it odd that he didn't even spare him a single teasing glance, not even a rolling of his eyes, and a look of superiority that would sing, _"Spiders? Are you serious?"_. No. That was a bad sign too. If something was up with him, then it must mean something to them as well. If he was, in fact, an assassin of some sort sent by You-Know-Who then it was a dumb idea on Harry's part.

That boy was, however, already on his way through said alley.

"This is absolute rubbish," Ron murmured under his breath, as Hermione and the blonde boy, with what looked very much like a shrug, stepped quickly after Harry.

"Harry!" Hermione pestered, "Let's just go back the normal way!"

Harry shook his head, Ron could barely see his dark visage in the gloom. "We're already here aren't we? It would take even more time to go back."

In retrospect, they shouldn't have let Harry get so frustrated in the first place, it only lead to bad things.

* * *

Lord Voldemort was waiting patiently for the moment Harry Potter would step into the open air of London. He couldn't stay carefully hidden away much longer.

The dementors he had sent to Little Whinging had failed, but at the very least that had managed to stir up quite a fair amount of trouble for the boy-who-lived.

However, the boy had taken care of the dementors on his own. Voldemort had been underestimating him, clearly.

His window of opportunity was quickly closing. As long as harry was not in Hogwarts he could be dealt with. The only problem was that dreadful, tiresome organization, The Order of the Phoenix, and that blasted man Dumbledore. He had not been able to locate their Headquarters as of yet, and it was becoming increasingly annoying.

So when one of his Pettigrew showed up before him, sniveling and unworthy, and muttered, _"They've found him. They know where the boy is." _He'd felt a kind of sadistic excitement he had been denied for quite a while.

"...or we have the general idea. That girl Hermione got spotted by one of the lookouts you had placed around the city going into a Muggle shop on that side of town. They've seen her out a few times, once with an Auror even..." and the assumption was that the 'golden trio' had been reunited, and that the boy could not be far. Avery stood before him and relayed the information, twitched away each time he so much as moved a finger. He had misinformed him in the past, once even about the matter at hand, the plan if this slight effort did not follow through. Falsified facts about the Department of Mysteries... He had been punished accordingly.

So he decided to give it more time.

"Watch the are carefully, tell me what you find."

Meanwhile, he had a new strategy to work out. His fingers itched for death. It would be so much simpler if he could just get rid of the boy now.

* * *

"A squib?" Luscius Malfoy frowned, disbelieving. Why would the Dark Lord want him to find a squib? One who would be assigned a job no less! Surely any assignment he had for this filthy shortcoming could rest easily upon his own shoulders. Or any other death eater for that matter. If not, _still, _a squib?

Not that it would be hard to find one willing to obey his master. Any squib would jump at the chance to assist He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, for this meant that he would not kill them. Being spared their lives, surely, would be convincing enough.

Fear was practical. Fear was efficient.

Narcissa pondered the thought of a squib quite seriously, screwing up her pale features into a twist of concentration when he consulted her about it that night at their dining table, "Do I know any squibs? Hmm..."

"Doesn't a squib own that odd pawn shop in Knockturn Alley?" Draco muttered around a piece of lobster that was placed delicately on his tongue.

"Not when your mouth is full, dear," Narcissa lectured, looking very serious.

Draco merely hummed in response, tossing his bangs back from his face and stabbing into another white piece of meat. He swallowed roughly and continued, "His name is Theodorsius or something hideous like that, he's an odd man, angry scum."

Luscius nodded, "I think I know who you mean," he affirmed, making plans to visit the shop later, "horrible kind of people."

"Horrible..." Narcissa conceded, head bobbing elegantly in her agreement.

* * *

Theodorsius Revelier was a man from France who had come to London for God-only-knows what reason and opened a pawn shop in one of the most dark and desolate places in magical London. He dealt strictly with things that were not... particularly... _legal._

Stolen was a better word, or dangerous, perhaps, either one.

All sorts of rare and common item alike, of all kinds and values, statues and books and body parts and creatures. At the start of things. Whatever he could get his slimy hands around and chain to a shelf in a dusty old corner of the world, where spiders crawled and demons lurked.

He longed for Magic, and he loathed it. He could have anything magical that he wanted, but he would never have magic. He would never cast a jinx, a curse, a hex, a charm, and he was angry. At the world. At magic. At Muggles...

(Perfect really. So full of hate, that they couldn't have found a better subject for their proposition if they had actually looked.)

...If he had to, he'd hate Harry Potter.

"The-Boy-Who-Lived", this boy had more magic at birth than he had in his pink toe, and for that, he could hate the boy.

So why shouldn't he die? It would be so easy, after all. He'd dealt with wizards in this manner before. The hardest part was getting the wand away.

After that, it was like baking a cake.

(He couldn't do that either, so maybe he could be mad about that too.)

It was either the brat or him anyway, he was sure. The Dark Lord wouldn't ask that something be done without expecting a _'yes, master' _in return and a quick execution of that deed directly afterward.

Of all the wizards he despised, the Dark Lord was his favorite. He was loyal to cruelty, to injustice, to death, and he was loyal to Voldemort. If this boy could be taken care of, and if he could do it, then the world would end up a better place in the end anyway.

Luscius had cringed at the sight of his bony figure, as he hunched and hobbled and grinned, "A job, you say?"

"A very important one..."

He'd pulled the knife from its sheath and watched it lovingly as it caught the dull light of a flickering flame. This would be fun.

Say goodbye, Boy-Who-Lived.

* * *

"For whatever reason, we still can't find where they are exactly," the man sighed, looking fearfully in his master's direction. "There's some sort of very heavy concealment charm surrounding the entire area. They're most likely exposing themselves far from their meeting place."

The Dark Lord sneered, it was a common expression, "He can't stay there forever. If you see him leave, if you see him anywhere outside of the concealment, you tell me immediately." His lips curled back in distaste, and he waved his hand flippantly through the air, "Now get out of my sight."

"Yes, my lord."  
So when, only two weeks after contacting Theodorsius – and making a very irrefutable agreement with the man – Voldemort was delighted to hear of the boy's presence.

"A library, he went to a library."

"...send the squib." he smiled, "Tell him to kill as many as it takes, but bring the boy back... Alive enough."

* * *

He could smell him, oh the agony of it. He wanted him dead, he wanted him gone, because he couldn't and that damn boy _could._

And he was making this so easy for him.

A shortcut? Shortcut to hell maybe. Theodorsius wanted to laugh, this was getting simpler by the second. What were the odds?

The name, "Harry Potter" was scratching at his lips.

It was dark, but he could see the boy. The boy and three others (good) that moved anxiously through the night. Toward home, he thought (correctly). What a pity.

The one in the front, that was him. The boy who managed to survive Voldemort, the Chosen One, Harry Potter, the fucking brat he was goin to murder – not murder, he reminded himself, he was supposed to keep him alive – stick his knife in and tear the magic out, because it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.

The Dark Lord would fix it, he'd promised. All he had to do was _kill _Harry Potter.

That's right. He would _kill_ him. Take the effort out of it. In the end, the Dark Lord would thank him, be gracious, happy really, that he had done it himself, and spared him from wasting his time.

_And I'll be a wizard,_ he thought with childish glee and his hand tightened around the handle of his blade, _I'll be just as good as any other too._

He'd be Voldemort's best servant, mystical and cruel. He'd kill and curse and jinx and all he had to do was kill Harry Potter.

The one in the front, that was him. The leader, he'd been told.

Naïve. Young.

One was a girl (_even better, _though some distant part of his mind) and the other two were male. Friends of Harry's. They'd die with him.

Would they still be his friends if they knew that?

He'd have all sorts of friends, but he wouldn't _need_ them, and that would be wonderful, perfect, good. He'd be a dark wizard and he'd do only what he pleased, and he'd be _magic._

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he'd promised, the Dark Lord, Voldemort.

All he had to do was kill Harry Potter.

* * *

Ed knew that their silly little magical sticks had been stolen. He wasn't blind – although it seemed very much as if _they_ may have been – anyone should be able to notice a pick pocket the moment they walk into a room. Sure the man was bent and crooked, old and innocent, a typical library type, by assumption, one might think. Ed had known that the thief was going to steal something quite possibly before the man even decided what it was he was going to steal. They all had the same look in their eyes, the same shift in their feet, the same lithe, jerky movement and guilty eyebrows. He thought briefly of Paninya and thought of how she would have done a much better job. Her stealth rivaled this man's by millions.

He would have snapped the man's hand off when his own pockets had been checked, but he had already seen the other's be stolen from, and as it appeared wands were the main focus... Well, he was curious to say the least. This was, after all, a "non-magical" library, so why would a "Muggle" steal wands? He wouldn't. Why would a pick pocket bring his criminal ways into a library in the first place without reason? He wouldn't.

That was the reason for two things actually.

One being why he didn't break that god damn pick pocket's arm in two when he touched him, and another being why he didn't stop Harry Potter from going down that alleyway.

Even though he _knew_ that man was in the alleyway. He had _saw _him when the had first set off to return to 12 Grimwauld Place. That was why he had immediately taken charge of their direction, planning on leading them on a route that would avoid that particular area all together.

If that bratty, fucking Harry kid didn't feel like having his ass watched out for him, then so bet it. He could go stomping stubbornly off into danger if he wanted. Ed didn't give a shit.

It would give him a chance to see how they could fare on their own anyway.

He wasn't sure, but there was a chance that the man had been holding some sort of blade.

Metal was his specialty, and he would have noticed the slight metallic glimmer from miles away.

So he hung back, not too much, but just enough, as they entered the so called "short cut". He considered warning at least one out of the three that there was bound to be trouble, but that would ruin the fun. Besides, he would _never_ go down a thin city passageway at dusk without expecting something life-threatening to occur. It happened enough, so he had learned at a very young age to always be on guard. Surely they knew what to look out for?

Harry was so determined – for something, no one had bothered to clue Ed in one the details – that he was now beginning to pull away from all three of his companions. His dark hair blending deeply into the night and his form almost receding completely into the growing shadows cast by the walls. Edward watched all of this with a certain amount of amusement. Hermione was clearly terrified, that was obvious from her quivering hands and wide eyes, and Ron didn't look much less worse for wear. In fact, he may have looked _more_ frightened than his friend did.

Ed noticed relatively quickly that he was the only one who didn't look frightened when a man stepped out from the dark exit of a building with a knife in his hand and seven little words on his lips. But, honestly, he had already figured this all out already.

"I'm going to kill you Harry Potter."

Well, at least he wasn't wasting any time.

* * *

_**A/N: **_Yes, yes, much of this was... Not the best, I'll admit. I feel very much as if I'm squeezing this out of nowhere, like it wasn't there before. Anyway, Theo is a bit cuckoo, so he'd going to mindlessly go for more blood than he's supposed to. But little does he know that Edward Elric's standing in that alleyway with him, and because of that, he should be _terrified._

_Cabal – plot_ (one of my favorite words!)


	11. Picayune

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Harry Potter or Fullmetal Alchemist, though I do have to wonder, does owning the first make you magic. Can J.K. Rowling do magic and she's simply holding out on us!

_**A/N: **_I have to continue with the subject my disclaimer suddenly sprung to the front of my mind. What if Rowling was a witch! That would be freaking ironic! And she could sit around while she made tons of money and laugh and laugh at the silly, predictable little Muggles! That's horrible! Ed would not stand for that!

Nor would he stand for douche bags who think they can just go around killing little boys! Haha!

* * *

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter 11**_

_**Picayune**_

_"I'm going to kill you Harry Potter."_

The first thing Ron did was panic.

It was only after witnessing Harry reach for his own wand that Ron even considered doing the same. He heard Hermione's small yell of surprise, and something that sounded vaguely like a laugh came from behind them. He might have turned to check to see if their was another attacker at their backside – or if possibly, maybe, Harry had been right, and the boy had turned on them – if he wasn't too scared to take his eyes off the one in front of him.

To his complete and utter horror, his back pocket was as empty as it had been when he had donned his pants that very morning. Possibly even more empty.

And it seemed he hadn't just forgotten his wand at home. Harry and Hermione had ended with strikingly similar results.

They had nothing. They were defenseless against this man who clearly wished ill of them. Ron wondered if this was it. He'd always humored that being Harry Potter's friend would be the end of them someday, but he'd never _actually_ believed it. Somehow they always seemed to come out on top.

Though that somehow really wasn't a mystery. _Magic, _he reminded himself_, and luck._ It seemed their wells had run dry.

The most ironic part about it was that they weren't even going to be taken down by magic. Ron eyed the knife in the man's hand as if it were the most horrifying thing he had ever seen, which it might as well have been. If he would have known this was going to happen, he would have begged for an unforgivable curse. One _Avada Kedavra_ was all it would took, a flash of light and a moment of pain and then you were gone. But this... This was a death from Muggle newspapers, horrible insane people who cut you apart piece by piece. Hermione had shown him enough of the stories for him to know they weren't pretty.

If he knew he was going to die young, he at least would have wanted it to be a bit more epic than this.

Harry spoke, his hands were clenched at his sides and Ron could tell he was thinking about some way to escape the situation, "Who are you?"

Hermione moved toward Ron, and he felt her reach blindly for his hand with her own, gently lacing her trembling fingers with his. He gave her what he hoped was a comforting squeeze, though he couldn't be sure. He was just as afraid.

"I'm the man that's going to finally kill the legendary Boy-Who-Lived!" the man sang out, brandishing his blade through the air so that it caught the light of the small sliver remaining from the twilight that had fallen with the last of the sunset, along with the light of the newly revealed moon, "and the Dark Lord is going to reward me so well, I'll _never_ be looked down on _ever_ again."

Another choke of a laugh came from behind, and this time he was sure it was the boy. His mind reeled.

"You don't have to do this," Harry stuttered out, it sounded a lot like stalling at this point, and he edged ever so slowly backward.

"Sorry boy, but after you're dead my life is going to get infinitely better, that's all I need," the man reasoned, his blade still dancing in the air before him, "you'd better stop trying to sneak away. I'm looking right at you after all."

Harry immediately complied, freezing, his whole body stiffened and Ron was torn between feeling like running to his friend and feeling like running away. But then again, the boy was behind them, and he still wasn't sure what would happen if he did turn around.

"Why like this?" Harry asked, "Why don't you just take out your wand and do it properly?" his tone was bitter and daring, and Ron didn't like it at all. He gasped, that had sounded rather like instigation after all, but Hermione shushed him. He clutched at her hand tighter.

The question obviously was the wrong thing to say, because the man's features twisted so violently that Ron was sure it must have hurt to change his expression so quickly. His face filled so full of rage that there was virtually no room for anything else to fit, and his grip tightened so hard on the blade's handle that it jerked frighteningly fast down through the air.

"Why don't I just _whip_ out my _wand, _you ask?" he cried out, old eyes flashing with anger, "Well, it's because I don't _have_ magic you little brat! I'm a _squib!"_

Harry gulped and Ron paled, mentioning magic had been an obvious mistake. The man's fury was palpable, pulsating through the air between them.

"Did he promise you magic?" Harry asked, taking another hesitant step backward.

"Don't take _another step!"_ the man screamed, placing his other hand on the handle of the long knife and pointing it straight at Harry's chest. He moved forward slowly, his teeth clenched together in a terrifying grimace, and Harry's breath caught in his chest.

It happened so quickly that Ron couldn't even comprehend it, Harry getting cut. The man just moved forward, slicing through the atmosphere with the sharp steel and catching the boy in the middle of a clumsy dodge to the side. The sharp edge cut right through the sleeve of Harry's long shirt, pulling across his skin and bursting through that as well. A noise that could have been a yell and could have been a sob emerged from Harry's throat, and he grabbed at the new wound with desperation, fear in his eyes.

Ron's eyes were trained on the silver sheen of the blade, now tainted crimson with red, as it rose into the air above the man's head for another opportunity. Time seemed to slow down just so he could watch. Watch his best friend die in slow motion, as Hermione screamed his name beside him. Harry closed his eyes, turning his head away as his entire body tensed for the blow, backed against the wall of the alley, and no one even noticed the young man who had stood behind them only moments ago moving quickly forward.

* * *

Ed knew the moment that Harry had mentioned magic to the man that he was not going to waste any more time. He had read about squibs. They were like the minority of the wizarding world. They were magic folk, bu they had no ability to do magic themselves. Ed could imagine that would be motive enough. People did terrible things because of envy.

He would know.

He honestly didn't know what he expected, but it had not been _this._ Harry obviously had no tactic what so ever, and had clearly never been in a situation like this before. He had no doubt the man would strike, and no doubt Harry would be very much in danger when he chose to do so. But for the sake of observation – and the fact that he noticed the swing of the first attack wouldn't do much harm, especially with Harry's attempt at moving out of the way – let Harry have a chance to defend himself.

He had at least thought, after the first hit, that Harry would have enough sense to get the fuck out of there. _Stop screwing around! _He thought as he watched Harry's eyes squeeze shut and his head turn, waiting for what he clearly believed was the invertible.

This was no fun.

Ed sighed, taking care not to draw his exasperation out for too long, and threw himself forward, thinking fast.

He had read enough about both the magical and non-magical sections of this world to know a few vital things. One was that his alchemy would most likely not be well accepted – despite the fact that seemed as if it would be a great asset –, that his being "immune" to magic was an extremely rare occurrence, as he could find no one else in the wizard books so far who was, and that it was important that he keep his automail as well concealed as was humanly possible. The adults back at the "house" had seen, and he was grateful that it appeared they hadn't gone and blabbed about it yet. It appeared that in this world the organic technology that Amestris had developed concerning the sensitive subject of the human nervous system had not been reached yet. He was suspicious as it was, and he was sure his automail would not make that situation any better.

So it was because of this that as he ran toward the man that was attempting to kill Harry, he decided on a course of action that would in the end, be entirely more painful than another. But all the same, less troublesome in the end.

Instead of reaching up with his right hand, his instincts screaming at him to do so, he placed his thin frame between the two of them, his left shooting up and grabbing onto the blade.

It was a long knife, cutting straight across his palm and sinking easily into the calloused flesh beneath his glove. Ed raised up his head and pushed back against the weapon, feeling the sharp edge pushing further into his hand, looking up through blonde bangs at the shocked expression of the attacker. He barred his teeth with a growl and used his other hand to push Harry roughly backward and away from him. Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, he raised a challenging grin.

"Piss off," he hissed.

* * *

Ron didn't even see the strange boy move toward Harry. Suddenly he was just there,between the man and Harry, between the knife and Harry. Ron felt the bile rise to his throat as a horrible _squelch_ sound rippled through the alley, and another loud whimper escaped Hermione's throat. The boy's hand wrapped around the knife in the man's grasp and he pushed back against it, blood flowing down his wrist and soaking into the white cotton of his sleeve and glove.

It seemed he may have been mistaken about whose side the boy was on.

His other hand ventured out behind him and pushed Harry back and away, so violently that he fell backward onto his butt, skidding slightly, and stared wide eyed up at the blonde haired teen who had just saved his life. Ron released Hermione's hand and rushed forward, kneeling down and helping Harry crawl hurriedly away.

"Piss off," the boy's voice ripped from his throat in a low grown, and he pushed up against the weapon again. Another fresh stream of blood carried down from his hand. Ron didn't understand, how could he even stand that?

"What?" the man was dumbfounded, "Who are you?"

The boy scoffed, "Does that even matter? Why does everyone want to know who each other are? Why don't you just take your third rate nonsense and get the hell out of here!" he nodded toward the knife, "you can take your kiddie toy with you."

The man scowled, twisting the blade further into the boy's hand in reply.

He grunted in pain, but did not let go, "That's the cheapest blade I've seen in a long time. Where'd you get it? An elementary school?"

Ron had to wonder what kind of a school this boy went to.

* * *

_I could crush that blade to pieces with one of my hands." _Ed whispered, venom coating his words. The man froze for a whole second before pulling the sharp end of the blade from his hand and holding it far above his head, poised to attack the same way he had before. Predictable.

The knife ripped through the air above the man's head and came down once more in Ed's direction. He paid it no heed, instead he raised up his let leg and kicked the man in the abdomen so hard that it threw him backward against the wall, moving slightly to the left simultaneously, so that the blade just barely nicked his left shoulder. He hit against the brick with the side of his face, and when he landed in a heap at the bottom there was blood streaming from a crooked nose and trickling down his chin away from a split lip.

Ed walked over to him, making his steps as loud as possible so that each sound echoed menacingly around him. His left foot placed itself atop the man's hand that still clutched onto the knife, and he crunched down hard upon the digits. The man yelped in pain, clawing at his hand with the other, panic in his eyes. Ed made a sound at the back of his throat and moved his foot away from the most likely broken hand, hoping sincerely that this bastard was a piano player, and back away.

He wasn't at all convinced that this man even knew _how _to use a knife. Sure, he _thought _he could, that much was clear by the way he held it, with confidence and assurance, familiarly, but he certainly didn't have any sort of _skill_ in the area.

He tossed the man a cheerful smile, it had been a long time since he had had a good fight – although this didn't necessarily promise to fit that category – maybe a good two weeks, and the strange calm of this world made him jittery and anxious.

The man was moving again, and he had to resist jumping in excitement. Yes! For a moment there he thought he might not even try to fight back!

* * *

Ron and Harry scrambled backward, somehow ending up beside Hermione on their butts, and they moved to the opposite wall of the thin passageway, watching the scene unfold before them. Hermione hurried to join them, fearful on her own and so near to the two men who were fighting. So near to the fresh blood on the ground.

Ron was completely astonished. His mouth and eyes hung wide with shock, as the boy did not even glance up at the knife slicing toward him once more. Instead, he lifted his leg up...

(Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognized the movement of the boy's leg. A stretch he'd witnessed maybe, or one of those strange balance exercises he always worked through after he stretched.)

...and _kicked_ the man right in the stomach. So hard that the man seemed to fly through the air away from his limb simply from the sheer force of it.

Ron gaped, this was crazy! Like some insane action story except without magic, with blood and knives and strength instead. It felt considerably more frightening that way.

The man came away from the wall bloody and looking thoroughly defeated, and the boy wasted no time in returning to the fight. Which was appearing very one sided. His foot was grinding down onto the man's hand now, and Ron was torn between finding this unnecessary – the man already looked half-conscious, how dangerous could he still be? Was this just malicious intent now? – and cheering the blonde on. The man had, after all, tried to kill Harry. Had come only moments away from doing so, actually. He stepped away, looking at the man and smiling almost as if inviting him to keep up the fight. To get up and challenge him again.

Then, the man moved. He rose up from the ground, and some strange emotion flitted through the boy's feral eyes. Ron knew he should be able to recognize it, bu it was so clearly out of place that he was having trouble discerning the expression at all. When the smile pulled genuinely across his face, and an airy laugh chuckled its way out of his vocal cords, however, Ron saw it for what it was.

Excitement.

It seemed Harry and Hermione had recognized this as well. The air fell from their lungs in a way that spoke of surprise and fear.

There had been no point in stepping on the man's hand it seemed, as when he rose he still held the weapon he had all this time, in his other hand – unless he merely meant to break his fingers, in that case, he had definitely made his point. Not even when the man arrived shakily to the peak of his climb, unsteadily reared at his full height with a hand holding his face carefully. The boy just looked on, that odd smile still adorning his exotic features and his sunny eyes looking eerie and dangerous in the waning light, as the man pointed it at him once more.

Then, as if it was his last hope, one final battle charge in which he'd run screaming into the throng of enemy lines. The man turned toward them, and sprinted right in Harry's direction.

Ron yelped, taken completely off guard and feeling more terrified of the situation then he had been of any other before (no wand, no way to defend himself, no way out, surely). Which in turn, inspired Hermione's scream, or perhaps she had been saving up just one more for this moment. Harry was not alone in his stunned silence, however, and as he froze up in quiet fear, the boy let out a frustrated yell.

* * *

Ed seethed. This man had thefucking _nerve_ to stop fighting _him _and go after that _boy_ again? There were so many things wrong about that that he might as well give up now. This man was doing such a horrible job at this bad guy stuff that Ed almost felt sorry for the poor bastard.

He'd seen scarier butterflies – no joke.

Ron and Hermione screamed, and he suddenly remembered that he had self-appointed himself the job of bodyguard only minutes ago, and that something probably needed to be done. Honestly, it was like watching little children! They couldn't even take care of themselves! Plus, he was just so _angry _he wasn't sure if he wanted to beat this man into a bloody pulp, transmute his face into a big pile of good-for-nothing shit (_oh, wait, someone else got their first,_ he thought with a sneer), or just grab him by the collar and bitch him out.

They all sounded pretty excellent right about now.

_"Ah!"_ he let out in frustration, running toward the children and – being much faster than the man – placing himself between them, "_Don't_ turn your back on a fight just for a cheap shot!" he snapped, and the man made to move around him, sweeping he weapon back toward Ed's body on his way, and Ed was enraged.

He grabbed his wrist when it came close, jumping up and using the man's own momentum – as well as his body for a platform – twisted his body around so that he landed behind him. The man's arm twisted behind his back. "_Don't _take that angle, it's a _dumb _thing to do. _Don't _piss off people who you don't _know _anything about," he twisted the arm in his grasp so hard that a loud _pop _echoed out in the night, followed quickly by the man's pained scream.

"_Don't _threaten to kill _little kids!" _he wrestled the knife easily from the man's hand, and angrily brought the blade down with his next sentence, "and don't," he began, before slicing quickly across the back of each of the man's thighs as emphasis when he continued, "_be _a _thief!"_

The man screamed out again, falling to his knees and reaching out his other (broken) hand toward Harry, who lay dumbstruck only a few feet away. Ed couldn't tell if he looked more like he wanted to kill him, or wanted him to help him.

"I'll _kill _you Potter! I'll _kill _you!"

Ed growled low in his throat, bending the man's arm further and feeling the bones protest weakly inside of the limb. He held the knife to his neck, adding enough pressure to slice through the thin layer of skin just beside his jugular, and watched the man stiffen instantly as a trickle of blood ebbed its way down his neck.

_"Say it again," _he warned, "_One more time. I dare you."_

The man gulped unsteadily, trying to shrink away from the blade. But Ed's grasp remained firm, and another bead of scarlet liquid eased down the broad column of his throat.

"I swear, when the Dark Lord finds out that –"

Ed decided that whatever the man was going to say, it sounded all together too threatening, and he didn't really care. He eased his pressure on the blade as to not accidentally kill the man, and wrenched his arm further in what he knew was very much the wrong direction.

Three loud _cracks_ filled the air, and a noise vaguely akin to a sob and a whimper escaped Hermione. The man howled with agony, his now severely broken arm twitching in Edward's grip as he struggled.

"See to it that I never see this arm," one more twist, just for kicks, and he would be satisfied. Another yell tore through the air, "or your miserable face ever again." and then he rose up his right hand, and punched the man solidly in the back of his cranium. He dropped like a stone.

* * *

_**A/N: **_I think! I think! I need a beta! Someone want to do that? Anyone? And not necessarily just for this story, for others too. It would really be a help, I suppose.

This chapter was a lot of fun to write. I can just imagine Edward getting really angry because what he thought was going to be a fun fight was much too easy for him, and what wouldn't be? After fight father and all the other super epic fights he has had recently, this man must seem like a waste of his breath to even be in the same proximity as him. Poor Ed, it'll be so hard to ever really give him a thrill again. I'm sure murderers were scary at first, but by now their probably just a nuisance, like mosquitoes or something. Haha.

_Picayune: of little value or account, small; trifling. Trivial. An insignificant person or thing. _

Wow, that one doesn't look like English. I love looking for fancy words to make chapter names! It's taking me longer and longer lately.


	12. Loquacious

_**Disclaimer: **_Have I said this before? I... don't own FMA and HP?

_**A/N: **_Whoa! Thanks for all the reviews guys, and sorry if I didn't reply to your review. A couple of days I was feeling really rushed and didn't get an opportunity to. Anyway, I received a demand that I update this as soon as possible, so I guess I will. As... I'm updating right now. So, there.

Okay, okay, okay, I'm not happy with this at all. You have been forewarned. I was going to hang on to it and keep changing things but I decided not to, it's going to be a little transition chapter, just to get this out of the way, and then I think I can feel back on track again.

_**

* * *

**_

_**Rue **_

_**Chapter Twelve**_

_**Loquacious**_

It was at this precise moment that two things happened, neither of which made Ed very happy. First, Harry tackled him – fully expecting that he had been about to kill the man and not convinced that he could witness such – and second, two loud _cracks _announced the arrival of a previously lost Tonks, and a considerably disagreeable Mad-Eye Moody.

Ed pushed Harry off of him angrily, "Get off!" he shouted, immediately sensing a strange feeling in his chest when Moody leveled his wand toward him. Not intimidated, but not appreciating being thought of as the enemy either – as he was clearly the _hero_, thank you very much –, he made his way back to to the unconscious man with one hand raised up above his head in surrender. He reached into the man's back pocket, pulling out three long sticks, and threw them onto the ground in front of Ron. He rocked back onto his heels before plopping down on his bum and holding his other hand up as well. Ron did not pick up the wands, simply stared at them, his expression still astonished.

"What's going on here?" Moody growled, as if it had been Ed who had tried to murder the kids. Ed frowned, how was he supposed to convince someone who wouldn't believe him that he wasn't to blame?

For some reason, situations like this felt entirely too common.

"This lunatic," he explained, nodding his head toward the unconscious and rather worse for wear man on the ground, "just showed up and tried to murder who I have been led to believe is _your_ charge." he hissed. Something in his mind clicked and he went into "Major Elric" mode without a second thought. "You _are_ in charge of keeping Potter here safe, are you not?" he asked, narrowing his eyes in a general accusation. It was best to rekindle the blame elsewhere, focus attention away from himself, and try to locate a scapegoat.

Moody snarled, taking a step forward and in no way insinuating that he was going to lower his wand. Ed blinked, his eyes darting in every direction to formulate a back-up plan just in case.

He was thinking roof-top escape would be nice. He'd use some big, flashy alchemy and maybe throw in a back flip or two here or there, and all in all it would be a rather good show. If anything, he wanted to leave them with an impression.

Luckily, or perhaps not-so-luckily, it never came to that.

It was almost a shame, as Ed was content to showing off whenever need be. His hands itched to transmute something,k anything, too, and he reasoned that if he didn't soon... Well... He wasn't sure what might happen.

You see, one hardened young man's body can take a lot of strain, but at some point "a lot" becomes too much. Then anything after "a lot" becomes "more", if the "a lot" isn't properly dealt with, then it promptly becomes "a lot more".

With the strain of the promised day – and many events before that – amounting to many physical burdens that hadn't been allowed the time to heal, well, small things just added to the throng. The blood loss from the wound in his hand and the exertion from the little aerial maneuver he did earlier weren't things that _helped._

Moody's mood has sadly been a bit put off when Ed had promptly stood up and fell right back over again, swaying before landing hard face down on the ground. He appeared quite unconscious, and Harry hovered over him, not sure at all how to react to what had all just happened. When the blonde rolled over with a groan a second later, Harry jumped right out of his skin, "Holy shit," he spat out after a moment, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes and letting out another grunt of discomfort, heaving a deep breath to attempt to calm himself down, "You have no idea how dizzy I am right now." He wouldn't have said anything, but talking was feeling pretty _great._

That was when Hermione somehow kicked back in to mother hen mode – bless her soul – and despite the vulgarity and shock of the entire situation, ran to his side. Her hands made their way across him quickly, a routine he was more than familiar with, as he had received the same once over many times from many people, searching for error or harm. Soon enough, she came to hold his hand in her own grasp and stare at the wound with horror in her eyes.

Ed was not worried, however. Slightly bothered, perhaps, by the tinge of pain escaping from his already numb hand. Slightly irritated as well, it seemed. He could have easily grabbed the man's wrist, in hindsight, but years of relying on his automail palm to take the blunt of the hits hadn't translated well for the opposite side of his body. However, he had seen so much worse so often that he almost opened up his mouth and _laughed_ at her stricken expression. To see tendons and ligaments torn, bones exposed to the open air, all coated in scarlet. He had seen such on what was probably too regular of a basis. He had to remind himself that laughing would be rude, but immediately after he remembered that he didn't really care.

He let out a gurgle of laugh, that felt cynical and sarcastic and _good_, and he looked down at his hand as well. "Not a pretty one, is it?" he asked her as he spotted the white of his bone beneath the flesh and wiggled his fingers with a wince.

Then she leaned to the side, putting her own hand over her mouth as if she were sure she was going to be sick, and his expression twisted into concern. Damn it all, he hadn't known she'd react so violently to such a small wound! Their roles suddenly reversed and he placed his right hand on her back, careful even in his sudden panic to keep the pressure light. IT wouldn't do to go exposing his automail to her too.

"Whoa there," he said carefully into the air above her, not at all equipped to handle this kind of a situation, "you're okay." That was what he settled on in the end, because that was what she was, okay, just a bit shook up.

He had to remember that these people didn't handle these kind of confrontations as often as he had back home. Danger was all too common, and while these "wizards" liked to preach about hall the deep shit they fancied they were in, it really wasn't all that deep. In fact, the significant _lack_ of danger lately had put him greatly on edge, and this felt almost like a relief. What better way to vent than to kick some murderous little bitch's ass? There were little to none.

"Hey," he called out, looking toward Ron, who was clearly seething with envy. Honestly, it was absurd, and entirely misplaced, who _wouldn't _comfort her? This would be the most inappropriate time or place for anything remotely romantic to even happen, and it was impossible anything of that sort ever _would! _Ed scowled and nodded toward her, signaling that Ron take his place, and hoped that the ridiculously dense boy in question got the message. Teenagers! He would never understand them.

Mad-Eye Moody had not moved from his offensive position – one which Ed found six easy openings in with only a glance – and Ed sighed in exasperation, "You see," he mumbled, "I really _don't _think that I'm the bad guy here."

Moody grimaced, "I'll be the judge of that."

* * *

The trip home was so quick it was unbelievable, though in a world of magic, it probably wasn't the trip home part that was actually unbelievable. Ron could fit no true thoughts through his puzzled mind, he wasn't sure exactly _what _had happened. There was danger, and they had almost died, and then suddenly, the quiet, strange, obedient and polite boy who had been hovering around him the past few weeks was shouting and swearing and fighting and talking and laughing and a variety of other unreasonable and unlikely things. It's not that he hadn't been able to take it all in, he just didn't know what to do with any of it. He didn't even know how to comprehend such a sudden change.

Apparently, the boy did, and he fit into his new role as dangerous and vulgar quite well. He allowed them to lead him back toward the house without much of a fight, his arms held behind his back as he was being pushed forward by a very adamant Moody, and filled the silence with snarky remarks and claims of his own innocence constantly.

Ron recoiled when he turned his searching golden eyes to his own, "Come on Ron! I saved your friend's ass, wanna stick up for me?" he asked, sounding more like he was impatient with the red-head then he was actually wondering whether or not he would. When Ron simply gaped at him, he rolled his eyes, "Yeah. That's kind of what I thought you'd say." he consented, before Moody roughly jerked him forward, making him stumble slightly and forcing him to look at the ground before his feet.

"Hey! Take it easy crazy-eyes I'm trying to be cooperative here!" He snapped at the man, shoving an angry elbow back at Moody, which did not help his case at all.

It turned out that Tonks had returned, coincidentally, only moments after they had left. She had been deterred by Moody's return, as he had noticed her out and launched into full-on interrogation mode as of why, and the moment he discovered the children were out, insisted that they go and find them. When he had found the library closed and empty of teenagers, he had panicked and had insisted on searching every easy route back to the house and any sub-route that they could have taken (or, according to him, been kidnapped while walking down, been attacked on, or anything of that sort). It wasn't hard to locate them from there, as they weren't exactly being quiet.

There was something definitely wrong about all of this.

When he entered the house it was all he could do to make it through the throng of people who quickly crowded around the boy. Who shocked them all at the discovery that he had gone from cold and mysterious to fiery and loud all in the course of one evening and a single of moment of... What? Heroics? He did save them didn't he? But he had seemed so... At ease, or possibly even _entertained_ by it – at least for a while, somewhere in the middle of it all he had went from entertained to very, very angry – and it had all seemed so simple to him, _normal _even, as if fighting off a crazy murderer with his bare hands was an everyday occurrence. He had spoken to the man, incriminating, threatening things and it was like someone had set off a switch because after that he wouldn't shut up.

Still.

Ron struggled to get anywhere within the adults, grabbing his hand onto Harry and Hermione and feeling a strange sense of panic. The boy's eyes had gone wide, looking on at everyone who gathered round to confront him at his arrival, and he opened up his mouth with a great welcoming, "What the hell? When'd I get so popular?"

Without further ado, Moody shoved him into the kitchen, and Ron made to follow, but something impenetrable blocked his way. His mum. "You three _will not _come into the kitchen an' you _will not_ listen. We're havin' a meeting, understand? Now go upstairs!"

Ron was silent, still quite in shock over everything that had happened, and Molly did not waste another moment, turning from them, she strode into the kitchen. She glanced over her shoulder with a scalding look of warning and Ron felt his feet move toward the stairs on their own accord.

"I TOLD YOU I FUCKING _SAVED _THOSE KID'S _ASSES! _YOU SHOULD BE THROWING ME A GODDAMN _PARTY!"_

There was a low hum of voices, and then a yell of a growl that was clearly Moody, "Why did Harry tackle you then? How do we know you weren't helping him?"

The boy let out a frustrated scream, "BECAUSE I KICKED HIS ASS, _THAT'S _WHY!"

"Who are you boy? Are you working for Voldemort?" There was a loud crack, and a pained yelp, as well as a cry of surprise from Molly.

"I don't even know who that is!" cried the boy, sounding less hurt and more angry, "I've told you already that I have no idea what the hell you're talking about!"  
Harry froze at this, looking confused and intrigued at the same time, and turned immediately and went back to stand beside the kitchen door. Ron hadn't figured he would make it all the way upstairs in the first place.

* * *

The long table was pushed to up against the wall at one end, chairs overturned and plates smashed, and in the middle of it all Moody had the boy against the wall as well, hand on his collar, feet suspended in the air, and wand against his neck. The boy did not look affected at all, entirely dauntless, he glared back at Moody with an intensity all of his own. He opened his mouth, his eyebrows pulling down...

...and the door behind Ron flew open.

"You sent word?" Snape asked, his long robe billowing about him as he carefully shut the door. His face held no surprise at the scene before them and his lips pulled back in an awful sneer. He brushed past the trio without even the slightest acknowledgment and regarded the situation at hand with thinly veiled disgust.

"I see the boy has proved to be less innocent than we originally imagined," he jeered, sounding not at all as if he had imagined the boy to be innocent. _Ever. _"What a _surprise."_

"Have you brought it?" inquired a nervous looking Remus Lupin, as he stepped over the remains of Molly Weasley's favorite plate set. It would be easily fixed later.

"The veritaserum?" he offered, reaching into his robes and pulling out a sinister vile, "Yes. I have."

"Good," Moody admonished, pulling back on the boy s that he landed – with an aggravated huff – with his two feet planted once more firmly on the ground. He didn't resist, only stared curiously at the vile in Snape's long fingers, as if he were trying hard to think of something.

"What is that?" he asked, as Moody roughly shoved him into the nearest chair, and Ron took a step closer, anxious for what was going to happen next.

Then the door shut with a heavy _slam_ only inches from his nose.

"If you kids know what's best for ya, you'll be headin' upstairs to bed!" Molly snapped from the other side, and Ron recoiled instantly.

* * *

_**A/N: **_In the last chapter there were mixed feelings about the amount of sadist I displayed in Ed. I'd like to address that with saying that he's _really_ upset, he is stranded in an unknown world and has no idea whether or not his brother is alive, or at the gate, or what, and absolutely no idea how to get back. He's frustrated, he's exasperated, he's bored, and all of this world probably drive him crazy. Also, he's always had an aversion to killing, but never to actually injuring people. He slices Kimblee's hands open, for instance, during their fight, and he almost _always_ goes in for a vital attack with his blade during fights. Anywhoooooo, sorry about the particular lack of... anything in this chapter. But it really wasn't comin' for some reason.

_Loquacious: characterized by excessive talk._


	13. Inundate

**_Disclaimer: _**I don't own Harry Potter or Fullmetal Alchemist, but I do own the sticker that tells me I'm not allowed to go into the school library anymore because I've had this book out for too long. Honestly, I've lost it. Soooo...

**_A/N: _**Mhmmm... Yeah, so, anyone know how long its been? A month? Something like that... Sorry? Hey! I love you guys! Thanks for all the _continuing _reviews, even when it hadn't been updated in forever, and all the messages and everything! They were so nice!

And special thanks to Faithless River for beta-ing this for me, and doing a kick-ass job. :) (Though I decided to keep the first part here! Sorry!)

* * *

**_Rue_**

**_Chapter Thirteen_**

**_Inundate_**

Tom Riddle had always enjoyed plans.

There was just something about a proper plan that always tickled his fancy, so to speak.

A well-laid, maneuverable cabal was best when calculated with cold disinterest. There was nothing he did better. Plotting was a high point, always a pivotal, peaking culmination of his many talents. Even as a boy. As an adult... Well...

Voldemort had always enjoyed plans too.

Enjoy, perhaps, was not the proper word. There was a passionate adoration there, something very akin to love. All men had to love something, and his interests lay interlaced with malicious intent. Everything in the world was like a device, a tool that could be easily powered if it had not lain dormant for too long. AThere was a scale, a things had a capacity for a maintained amount of "right" or "wrong" and this was influenced with little to no difficulty. He liked to tip the scales, especially when things would begin to fall in his favor.

Especially, when he had planned it that way.

Success makes anyone's heart soar, and if an aggressive and logical scheme should succeed, then it is only right that he be giddy with the accomplishment. When events flowed smoothly – when his ideals oozed into all the right dark little cracks of society and human mentality – then he could congratulate himself on a day well spent. There was nothing quite as exhilarating as feeling like a puppet master, the world hanging on strings beneath your fingertips. Therefore: this is where it all begins. With a plan.

Without interference, this is also where it all ends.

Suffice to say that if the Dark Lord would be extremely pleased upon hearing word that his latest endeavor of wickedness was a success, then he should be outraged when faced with the news of the opposite outcome. To discover that the boy still lay outside his reach was annoying at the very least. To hear that his worthless, pitiful being of an assassin was captured was hardly worth the slightest pang of disappointment – and only because he had failed, otherwise, he would be dead all the same. Hearing that he had new opposition? That was the most maddening part of this situation, a ruined plan. (Though, honestly, he hadn't really expected this plan to succeed. It would be far too easy if it had. At this point it was practically jest, poking fun at their defenses and wasting their time. A promise, if you will, a message: this is nothing, just you wait.)

What had truly angered him, though, was the fact that no one had the slightest idea who this new – and seemingly capable – enemy was. He was an unsolved mystery. He had appeared from nowhere and had disappeared back from which he came without leaving any clues. There was no great detective among his servants. It was, to them, almost as if this man had been stored away forever in the headquarters of the Order, only emerging now to foil his mediocre attempt at his nemesis' life and then, afterward, retreat back into anonymity once again. As if he were some carefully bred weapon, and nothing more, deployed this once.

His new plan he decided on very quickly, and there was little contemplation involved. It was this: find the identity of this new factor and then tip the scales.

Anyway, if he could not succeed at this, he could always just kill someone.

That was something else that he loved.

* * *

_Pour magic mumbo-jumbo down my throat. Sounds fun. Sure. Yeah. Let's see what happens._

Ed honestly had absolutely no idea why he had consented to this – because yes, he had _allowed _it, they might believe that they were in charge but... Well... That was because they were a bunch of superstitious morons, wasn't it?

He hadn't been making the best decisions as of late.

This magic shit wasn't going over well down in his bowels. Not to mention in his mind.

It felt...Invasive. If there was a more adequate word to describe the feeling he would gladly make use of it, but his thoughts were hardly focused enough to organize such a process. They had told him this liquid they had administered...

(Three drops. _One. Two. Three. _That's all. Like poison.)

...to him was one of truth. He was fully convinced that nothing could manipulate him. This world was so full of crap that he was absolutely _sure_ of this potion's inferiority to himself and his strong mentality. Not that he wasn't positive he could deceive his way out of any question; even if it did affect him. He knew _a lot __of_ _truth._

He could give them the truth either way. No one had said he had to be specific, after all.

They were speaking to him, there were questions poised on their tongues. He couldn't discern the sounds though, couldn't comprehend their expressions. In one moment everything was in a haze and the next everything was as sharp as a knife. His senses had kicked into overdrive at some point but he couldn't remember when. He couldn't remember why.

He felt his stomach flip and the world slow down. The sounds coming out of their mouths made even less sense, so clear and loud but so warped by this manipulation of his perceived reality. Each syllable was reinvented in the wrong direction.

He stopped trying to listen.

There was a barrier there. Where his auditory reception was inexplicably lacking, his other sensory attributes were reeling with comprehension. He knew at once that the wood beneath his feet was stolen from the felled body of a hard maple tree. He could smell the trace elements in the air surrounding him, _Argonium_, he humored, while his mind hummed insistently, _less than one percent. _He analyzed the chemical make up of all the beings around him, muttering, but not really hearing the words that escaped from his own lips. There was something about breaking down these humans in his mind, some darkness that stabbed at his heart, yet he analyzed still. There was something odd about them. Something different. It was important, but he couldn't reach it. It was moments away but he was frozen. Stuck. Not moving. _Shit. _He needed to _know._

Pain blossomed in the center of his chest and he yelped in strangled surprise. There was a strong, grappling hold on his diaphragm. As if some invisible being was dead set on suffocating him from the inside out. When he inhaled, the muscle ripped along and stomped a path of destruction through his respiratory system. He clutched helplessly at his chest.

There was something wrong. Something inside of him had gone wrong and he needed it out. He wanted to puke, wanted to expel this feeling of this _incorrect _thing that was existing in his depths. Something had manifested within him and it was all _wrong. _He needed it gone. But he couldn't breath and he could hardly consciously move himself outside of panic. He felt trapped. Claustrophobic.

Edward was a purely autoschediasticalcreature, but there was no automatic reaction for this. No instinct could help him here. No improvisation existed that he could apply to the situation. Nothing. There was nothing.

He gasped for breath.

The veil of confusion thickened, the blurred line of horrid interpretation that had made it so difficult to assimilate only minutes ago. He no longer hear even the smallest of sounds from their still adamantly moving mouths, he could not feel the warm, flesh grasp that rudely accosted his shoulder. He knew, though, what is what made of.

(Couldn't make it though. Couldn't create it. It was human. It was human. Unreachable. Not enough. Not enough.)

_'__This was not a good idea__':_he managed to dumbly arrive at this conclusion in his head – though he could have spoken the words aloud and he would have never known it. He felt instantaneous regret. Why did he need trust? Why try for it? He could have just left, he should have, he could have found a way home all by himself.

(The problem was – and this he had considered earlier, when he still had enough proper lucidity to do so – that to find his way home he was almost positive magic was completely necessary. These people were the only magical beings he knew. For outside of this home all he was aware of was a world of "Muggles", who had not even the slightest knowledge of these "witches" and "wizards". He was lost.)

In a flash of inspiration he had a sudden thought that pierced rapidly through his growing haze.

_Unless..._

He thought.

_Unless..._

_

* * *

_

Ron took extra care to screw his face up into the most pointedly exasperated look he could manage before directing it toward his bumbling twin brothers.

"Tangled?" He asked angrily. "Tangled?" Hermione and Harry looked equally frustrated, and this did nothing to stop the two red-haired boys from becoming defensive.

"Hey! Cool it, we don't even know that they'll work at all..."

"...'cause Mum put a charm on the door, remember?"

"And that's why we haven't got the cord straightened out..."

"...haven't had any use outta 'em lately..."

"...probably won't when we get 'em untangled either."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ron bristled, annoyed. He leaned heavily against the railing; thoughts he didn't want to be bothered with at the moment were speeding through his conscious mind. Accosting him was what they were doing, actually, a mental interrogation set upon him by himself. Perhaps by his conscience, the little voice that was always there with a helpful, _"Maybe you shouldn't do that." _He rarely listened.

"It's supposed to mean, if mum doesn't want you to listen..."

"...then you probably won't."

"So there's not even a point in us breakin' this bad boy out for you again!"

"Honestly," it was Fred who finalized things, dropping the slightly-better-looking mess of string (and flesh, Ron supposed) at his feet, "you can untie it yourselves."

They were gone in an instant, and Ron wanted to shout. Ugh!He understood why his mum hated them apparating so much. How could she yell at them if they just disappeared?

"This is ridiculous," Hermione chimed in, striking a very dignified pose and thrusting her nose into the air above her, tainting the air with her mere presence. Her eyes blazed in the way they always seemed to when she had an indignant drive of unexplainable determination. Harry may have been the most daring of the three, but Ron thought very often that this young woman was the bravest.

"It is." Harry stated, quite clearly, as well as quite impatiently, without letting Hermione continue. She might have huffed with frustration if he had not been agreeing with her. _Or if it were me, _Ron thought. Her hands were on her hips now and then Harry was speaking again, "We have to go do something about it."

"He saved our lives," Hermione added, slumping out of her dominant posture in favor of leaning her hands and her body against the rail beside him. Ron looked down the slim stairway, seeing the same dark and strange corridor. "We should have stood up for him immediately."

"Just a bit too shocked, I think." Ron explained, feeling quite a bit as if he were making an excuse. An inadequate one at that. He wondered idly if it sounded the same way to her.

"That's hardly an excuse," it was Harry who was first to see it for what it reallywas. However, it was not only an excuse, it was _Harry's _excuse too. Ron swore that if he did not realize that, he was a bit more far-gone then he had originally figured. "Still, none of us said _anything._"

Ron's sigh was one of relief.

"It was all so bloody scary," he commented, shaking his head in disbelief, "I'm still not sure what happened." This was true. What had happened? Well, that was the big mystery, wasn't it? Oh, he knew the straightforward facts, he understood the concept of the "man with knife gets attacked by boy" situation and the "that boy saved your life" part, but it was all a bit too complicated for him to... Perceive.

This was the boy's fault, ultimately. It was his fault because he had deceived them – he was sure, there was no other explanation – with a disguise of the quiet, obedient child. He had altered his personality and completely rendered a new one, an opposite of the other, the original, and then set this creation upon them. Then again, he didn't know anything about this new boy. He might be wrong to make assumptions so quickly. But, the not knowing thing, that was exactly his point, wasn't it?

All the same, when he had not known anything about the boy before, it had been because he was withdrawn and secretive. Now he seemed anything but, and yet they still knew nothing about who he was.

There were suspicions though, and everyone had their own.

_Death Eater. _Ron's mind called endlessly down the halls of the house, _Death Eater. He's a Death Eater. Lock him up. Lock him up. _Yet – despite never being a very logical person, logic still came to him occasionally – he couldn't possibly be. Was it feasible that a Death Eater would have saved their lives from one of Voldemort's servants? It couldn't be. That wouldn't make any sense.

Besides, if Voldemort already knew how to infiltrate their defenses, he was sure that there would have been no children for the boy to save.

"He still doesn't deserve to be down there being interrogated just because we can't get past our silly confusion!" Hermione snapped, moving past the two boys and to the top of the stairs. She lightly kicked the extendable ears on her way, they buzzed with some strange infinitesimal hum of recurrent magic before falling still once more. Ron stared at them, avoiding Hermione's expectant gaze.

"Well?" she sounded off, her foot lightly tapping on the old floorboards. Harry stirred at this, moving toward her. Ron figured that at this point, he had no other options. He followed suit.

So when it came to the moment where every member of the golden trio had their backs turned to the hallway they had previously occupied, and had their fronts turned toward the stairs, it came as a surprise that someone else had been listening in on their conversation. Ron could tell you, if you asked him, for he was the most surprised of them all. This was nothing new.

Ron whipped around at the noise that had erupted from behind them, weak and raspy and yet somehow magnificently loud. He regretted looking instantly, and made to turn back to the stairway without a second thought. This. This was not something that he needed.

It was Harry's hand grasped tight to his shoulder that stilled him, and his acknowledgment of the creature that had interrupted them was what made him groan in frustration. "Kreacher?" Harry ventured, sounding helplessly puzzled, and Ron didn't miss the look of curiosity that befell Hermione's face.

The strange, elderly, spiteful little creature regarded them with thinly veiled disdain. He offered what may have resembled a bow in Harry's direction (if you squinted), and sneered at Hermione and him. That was nice. When he spoke again it was with a voice that spoke of ages living within the dark and the dust of the Black families former residence, and his throat quivered with the effort.

"It is a bad idea," he warned, "to be going down there now."

Hermione's face scrunched up in careful consideration, and she took a small step forward as her eyebrows knitted together, "What do you mean Kreacher?"

"Kreacher thinks," he paused at this, and Ron noticed that he would only look at Harry, "Harry Potter will not want to be there when it happens." The house-elf was visibly shaking, and Ron's stomach sank, "It will be messy, the filthy, rotten, _Muggle..." _Ron tuned out his insistent mutterings. It will be messy?

"What are you talking about?" Harry implored, a new sound of nervous wonder betrayed in his voice, "When what happens? To the boy?"

Kreacher reeled back at this, his cracking gray lips pulling back against his teeth as a hiss of air was expelled from his lungs, "The boy! The boy!" He whispered frantically, "Not a boy! Not! What is he? _Horrible, _he is, _ugly, damnable _creature! Muggle, Muggle, Muggle, but a demon. Filthy, _wrong. Ruination," _the poor thing had this crazed look in his eyes, and its soft volume began to slowly rise with each passing word, as well as the pitch, and Ron felt as if it were more like shrieking now than anything else. "Mistress would hate him! Kill it she would! _Get rid of it! Never in the house of black! Not a boy! Disgusting! Vile!..." _Ron covered his ears, barring his teeth.

What was Kreacher's problem? What in the world was he going on about?

Much to Ron's dismay, things did not quiet from there.

"DEMON!" Mrs. Black wailed from the portrait that hosted her perennial existence, "DEMON! GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!"

"Shut her up!" There was a loud slam of the kitchen door beneath them before Moody's voice reverberated angrily throughout the building. A cacophony of sounds followed behind it, breaking the barrier that had kept the events in the kitchen from them before.

"Moody! Help!"

"Sirius and Remus will get her! Just come back and help us!"

"What's going on Severus?"

There was a pause. A mumble.

"Well you'd better start bein' a little more sure!"

Then, breaking through the chaos, was one, long, heart-wrenching scream. Ron instantly knew this voice. It was the boy's.

He had recently discovered it.

Harry ran down the stairs.

Kreacher screamed as well.

Mrs. Black growled, "NO! OUT! HORRIBLE, GROTESQUE, DISGUSTING!..."

The sounds hurt his ears.

Another scream from the boy.

Ron followed.

* * *

Everything was in disarray, the table was on its side, glass littered the floor, water was spilled – and was promising a fall for the next person who stepped over its slippery surface – and the boy...

(Ron had almost fallen twice coming down the stairs, he was in such a rush. Now, he stood frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, hardly noticed through the panic of the adults, and flanked by an equally stunned Hermione and Harry. He knew that it would not be long before his other siblings were downstairs as well, drawn by the noises that flew through the air all around them.)

...He was... He was...

The boy was leaning heavily against the wall; bare of any cupboards or appliances. There was blood, red, bright, wet, tearing down the front of his body from his mouth in ever-thickening torrents of crimson liquid. His arm, his right arm, was pulled back, tensed and coiled, and as Ron watched the boy reared back before punching forward. _Smash, _and his arm was through the wall. A collective gasp rose up around them and he watched as suddenly his mum was beside the boy. Her arms wrapped around his chest from behind, and she struggled to pull him away form the wall.

"Calm down!" she shouted, as Tonks ran to help her. "It's okay! You have to stop!"

"Hold 'im down," Moody growled, pushing past Ron in a furious manner, and shoving him so hard that it nearly knocked both him and Harry to the floor.

Snape was still present, watching the scene rather coolly from the corner with obvious interest. "That's odd, isn't it?" he mused under his breath, and Ron, quite distressed, turned to him in anger.

"What's odd? What'd ya do to 'im?"

Harry was just as mad, facing the potions master with fire behind his dark eyes,

"What was in that potion?" he hissed, "What did you do?"

Hermione's hands were on her mouth. She took an involuntary step backward.

"I only gave him Veritaserum, Potter, Weasley." Snape answered, sounding quite irritated. "It's... I believe his body is rejecting it."

"Rejecting it? What do you mean rejecting it?" Harry asked.

"His body is trying to get it out."

"What's with all the blood?" Ron demanded. If his body was trying to get it out, why wouldn't it just have him puke it up and be done at that?\

"I don't know."

"There's something wrong with him already," Hermione supplied in a horrified whisper, "he's not been able to keep much food down the whole time he's been here. Sometimes there's blood."

Snape frowned, mumbling something to himself about how it would have been nice of them to tell him this before. Ron no longer cared. He turned from the astonished man looking at Hermione before looking back in the boy's direction once more.

At some point Remus and Sirius had returned, and, oddly enough, despite the size of the boy, it took all five of them to keep the him relatively still. He lay thrashing beneath them, no doubt cutting himself on the fragmented glass that was scattered throughout the kitchen. It was only when his body began to slow, calm, and his wild resistance became mild and manageable – the world become less loud – that he noticed the boy had been speaking this entire time.

_"Darmstadtium. Dubnium. Dysprosium. Einsteinium. Erbium. Europium. Fermium. Fluorine. Francium. Gadolinium." _They boy grabbed tight on to the sleeve of Molly's shirt, and Ron heard the material rip. He felt the urge to run forward and pry the offending hand away, but he was too transfixed to move. The boy was choking now, loud, deep, hacking coughs that turned into sputtering gurgles as blood pooled in his mouth. Ron felt nauseous. It was beyond him how the young man managed to lean over and spit out the liquid, making room for his words once more. _"Gallium. Germanium. Gold!" _His hand clawed now at the floorboards beneath him, _"Hafnium. Hassium. Helium. Holmium. Hydrogen... _Moody!"

They all started at the sound of Alastar's name, and said man regarded the boy with a sneer, but, also, genuine interest. The boy was looking straight at him, golden eyes blazing with an intensity unlike any Ron had ever seen.

"Who... Who is Voldemort? Tell... Tell me!" He spit the words and even in his state of arrest on the floor, covered in his own blood, he seemed impossibly feral. "_Indium,_" the strange words returned in a whisper, and his golden eyes that had been burning like fire only moments before screwed shut in pained concentration, "_Iodine. Iridium." _His eyes opened again, only to roll back into his head as he slumped back against the floor, struggling once more. He banged the back of his cranium on the floor so hard there was a soft _crack_ of a noise, and Ron fought the urge to vomit, "_Iron. Krypton. Lanthanum. Lawrencium. Al? Al? Lead! _AL!" He was louder now, more desperate, and Ron felt very much as if he were watching something other-worldly. Once again his throat bubbled with the blockage of fluid and he talked around it for a moment before choking – there were no coughs this time – his back arching up and off of the ground and his fingers clenching so tightly at the floor beneath him it looked as if it may break. He gasped one, wet breath, and then fell limp.

"Shit!" Sirius fumed, "Oh God, Severus, what the hell did you do?"

"We hardly go to ask any questions!" Moody admonished, and Lupin looked quite a bit taken aback.

"Alastor! The boy is – the boy!" He turned back around as rapidly as he could manage, he tipped his head back, a steady hand firm on his jaw. His hand was over the boy's nose and a moment later his expression was horrific.

"He's not breathing."

* * *

**_A/N: _**And then Maya precedes to disappear for another month or so! Just kidding! Hopefully I'll manage to stay alive this time!

_Inundate - drown, overwhelm_


	14. Denouement

**_Disclaimer: _**I do not own Harry Potter or Fullmetal Alchemist.

**_A/N: _**I'm thinking maybe I'm just not going to say anything... Except... Thank you? Yes! A lot! And this time, I'll actually personally reply to all the reviews! I promise! And not joke around about leaving for a month and then have it turn out I was accidentally being serious.

And thanks to Faithless River again for beta-ing, she does a brilliant job! Her internet was down for a while though, so I apologize for the extra lateness (/is still trying to make herself in less trouble) And for coming up with the fancy word for this chapter. Nice, right?

EDIT: Alright! fanfiction was a freaking BITCH to me for days! My computer got taken away, then fanfiction KEPT bring a bitch! Then they would email me back (BITCHES) and THEEENNNN I fixed it. :) Soooo sorry. Next chapter sooner and longer. Yeah?

**_

* * *

_**

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter Fourteen**_

_**Denouement**_

**_

* * *

_**

Kreacher moved through the house like a wraith, his feet ghosting wickedly across the floorboards. The calloused skin beneath his toes was rough like worn leather, like a cat's tongue, or the harsh brush of concrete. It pulled against the splintering wood of the Black family house with each of his unsteady steps. He existed in a wandering motion. He floated forwards, his eyes trained on the dark around him. He could travel for days in this house, moving in circles forever, never getting lost. He knew each breath of air by heart, and could navigate as such. Memorization served to navigate him, and his pale sense of despair as he mourned his master. Mourned these intrusions. Filled with grief.

The house was filled with filth he'd never be able to clean.

'_At least,'_ he thought, though he could have very well said the words out loud. It would have made no difference to him, '_at least Kreacher does not have to worry about _it _anymore.'_

It. Him, they called it, they called it a him, a boy, they thought it was a person.

They were crazier than he had thought; they were more disgusting than ever. They were wrong. It wasn't. It didn't even belong. It was wrong.

The corners of Kreacher's mouth twitched in a way that was unfamiliar to him. It could have been the makings of a grin, if the expression didn't twist half-way through, pull apart, tear down, and land in a grimacing frown. Pleased, though, he was pleased, because it was dead now. That was good.

One down, Kreacher humored, rotten filthy creatures.

* * *

(In the end, they hadn't had to have any debate over what to do with the squib.

When they returned to him from the panic in the kitchen, hearts heavy, it was to an old man with a letter opener stabbed into his throat.

It seemed he knew what was coming to him. You don't fail Voldemort. That wasn't how things worked. It was as simple as that.)

* * *

Ron dreamed.

In his dream, he was at Hogwarts. He was standing at one end of the Great Hall, the tables stretched out before him for what seemed like miles. The ceiling was a mess of dark clouds, but there was no storm brewing, it only served to stopper any light from permeating the silent darkness of the room, it was calm. The staff table and the podium were empty. There were no chairs. There were no plates. There was no food. There were no utensils. There were no windows.

At the other end of the room, there was another boy. He stood facing Ron, his golden eyes ablaze with unexplainable fury. His gaze penetrated Ron's mind from across the room, and Ron was frozen where he stood. He tried to move forward, he tried to move away, but his feet refused to listen.

Something fell from the ceiling, and Ron looked down to where it had landed beside him. It was blood, thick and liquid, scarlet and horrible. It was the smallest of drops but as he watched it grew, it stretched, and it covered the stone under his feet within seconds**.** It then began to slowly creep up the bare flesh of his legs. He felt it smearing over his skin. For some reason, he was unconcerned. He only had attention for the feral eyes that bore into his soul. He gazed at the boy, stunned, and was caught. Was frozen in time.

There was blood dripping from the boy's mouth (this is how Ron remembers him, and he doubts that the boy will ever intrude on his thoughts without the crimson life-liquid coming along with him) and when it falls from his chin it rises into the air. It flies across the room and through the clouds and it drops down at Ron's feet, where it climbs up his body like varicose veins, warm and sick against his skin.

His mouth was moving, but he couldn't think of the words he was speaking. He didn't know them.

"Who are you?" He hears himself ask the question.

"I'm dead." Is what the boy answers, and his voice rips across the room and Ron can feel it wrap around him.

"No," he responds rather firmly, even though Ron is sure he is wrong. For some reason, in this dream, he seems sure that he is right, "no, you're not. Who are you?"

The boy looked at him incredulously. After a moment the frown which had spread across his features dissipated and his expression changed completely, "You don't know, do you?" he questioned, the beginnings of laughter escaping from his lips.

Ron only looks at him, he does not shake his head in the negative. It's an obvious question, and he wonders if it even needs to be answered, or if its one of those questions people ask just for the hell of it. Of course he doesn't know.

There is a tingling sensation on his hands and his eyes dart down in that direction, noticing that the crimson spread has pasted its way across his thumb and palm respectively. His eyebrows furrow, and he feels the very beginnings of concern tug at the back of his mind.

The boy is smiling again, the irritating, infuriating smile he smiled the last time Ron asked him what his name was. "Demon!" He mocks, "Demon! GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!"

Ron bristles, "Stop messin' around!" he shouts, pounding forward suddenly, his feet moving beneath him. The boy's eyes are closed as he wails out in ridiculous tones, and Ron is furious with him. He's halfway across the Great Hall and demanding to know who he is again, because god damn-it he needs to know. "Just tell me who you are!"

He stops when the boy falls silent. Ron notices that the blood from his skin has splashed all around as he walked, and it is speckled across the tables as if he has spun around and thrown it from his body. There is no warning when he turns, no tell-tale sign of movement in his peripheral vision. So when he turns and the boy is right there he feels as if he could jump out of his skin. Except dream-Ron is calm, and he stares at the boy's exotic face with a sort of passive curiosity, yet he is angry, he is so mad that he feels like there is steam in his head and his brain is too warm to think properly. His thoughts evaporate and condense again, all at once. "Who are you**?**"

The boy grins wider now, _"Darmstadtium."_He begins his answer with this single word, this name, that is so beyond Ron but engraved into his memory by horror anyway. (This was the first time he had ever witnessed death, it would not be the last.)_ "__Dubnium. Dysprosium. Einsteinium. Erbium. Europium. Fermium. Fluorine. Francium. Gadolinium."_

_"STOP!" _Ron shouts, pushing against the boy's shoulders hard, and instead of propelling the boy away, it has the opposite effect, and Ron's momentum is suddenly pitched against him. He flies backward and lands hard on his back, _"Stop," _he mumbles, _"stop it."_

_"You don't know, do you?" _The boy laughs, _"DEMON! Ha! You _don't! _Get out!"_

_

* * *

_

'...the boy is dead...' Albus Dumbledore's fingers clenched tightly around the letter that had recently been flown by owl through his office window. His breath caught in his throat, his shoulders stiffened, and he frowned for a brief moment, considering this new information. A sigh of exasperation escaped his lips as he fell back in his chair and he placed a heavy hand on his forehead as he closed his eyes. This wasn't good.

He had hoped to find out more about the boy. Gain his trust, in any way possible. He hadn't seemed dangerous at all, and if he could have discovered the reason behind the odd teen's immunity to all things magical he could have used it to their advantage. Immunity to dark magic could possibly be the best asset they would have been able to attain, if the boy had not... Died.

By magic too! Apparently, he was not impervious to all of it.

It seemed it was good that he had not delved further into this rare ability. It may be that his body could not handle the stress of the magical properties of the elixir they had given him. If it had produced such violent reactions, than it may have done more harm than help to harness this extreme quality.

And he had been so sure that he was onto something huge. A breakthrough. It would've been perfect. If he could have discovered something so purely resistant to everything they were fighting against, then they would have the ultimate defense against their opponent. From there, developing a good offense would be key, but hardly a problem if they could not be harmed half as easily in the first place.

His only concern had been the immunity's effect on their performance of magic. If he could have dissected the origin of this trait, however, he may have been able to find a way to conquer that possibility. Surely Severus, at least, would be able to find some way around it. It really was a shame that the number of problems within his small plan had dramatically increased. One of the largest problems being he no longer knew of anyone who was resistant to magic, nor was he sure if the boy had been. The coincidental attack of the children and death of the boy had to mean something too, and it puzzled him. How were they connected? Maybe they weren't, but it seemed too odd a happenstance to be anything but intentional. Perhaps the boy would have been essential to their cause, or perhaps Voldemort had simply eliminated him in an attempt to stop him from joining their side.

All the same, he was a just a boy, and a Muggle boy at that – albeit with a unique circumstance. They also couldn't forget that he had somehow made it past all of their defenses, bloody and broken, and that he was missing two limbs, arriving with strange machines attached to him. He had inquired to Arthur about the odd prostheses, and had received only the same amount of curiosity in return. It appeared these machines were something Muggles had not invented yet. They were not magical, and they were not Muggle, and somehow he doubted they would ever really know what they were.

Severus had considered removing them from the boy after his death, but it seemed too horrid a task, really. They had a plan, with or without the knowledge of where and why this boy had come to them. Now that he was gone, it meant nothing, really. Everything would continue as it had before, and nothing would change.

Beyond all of this, the simple horror of it was something that concerned him as well. A boy was dead. A young boy, a causality of their own making, simply by freak accident. This was terrible. The boy had so much life left ahead of him, and probably had a family somewhere _looking _for him, and...

'This is terrible,' he thought with another sigh, leaning his elbows onto his desk and feeling the silk of his robes sashay against his arms, 'but right now I have a hearing to worry about, and it appears I'll have to get up a little earlier than I had anticipated.'

_

* * *

_

Ron frowned at the large group that had showed up at the house, even Dumbledore had arrived, leading the procession.

Harry wouldn't be happy.

Actually, Harry wasn't happy.

He could already feel the dark-haired teen fuming from behind him**;** his anger obvious to everyone in the room. It did not comfort him to think he'd have to deal with it later. Not to say he wasn't furious too, but Harry often had half a mind to do things that just couldn't be done - even if these things often turned out quite possible after all in the end - but Ron knew where they stood on this one. There was simply nothing that could be done.

(He might just be a little relieved to see the boy go, so that he was out of their hair for good – maybe now the dreams would stop.)

"I'm sorry about this," Dumbledore offered an enraged Sirius, "I really am."

And he _did _sound sorry. He really did.

Ron frowned, the situation was already bad and even if no one liked the solution, it was the only thing that really made sense. The ministry could preserve the body, look for the boy's family, and they might be able to discover something about the boy's immunity to magic. Maybe from an autopsy or... _No, _Ron stopped his thoughts abruptly, it was better not to think that the government might run _experiments_ or _tests_ or something on him. He sounded crazy enough already, just thinking about it!

If they tried to burn or bury the body, it would be too risky. Voldemort might intercept them if he knew anything about this strange boy's odd ability. Not to mention his mum wouldn't hear a word of _that. _He might have a family out there somewhere, and if he did, they deserved to know that their son was dead.

He was sure that she'd want to know if it was one of her boys.

Ron shuddered at the thought of what his mum would feel if she was in the position the boy's mother might be in right not. If he had gone missing, then suddenly turned up dead? She would be heartbroken.

Ron wondered if they were in some country far away. The boy didn't seem as if he were from around here at all.

Or he hadn't.

_It's over now, _he told himself, watching stiffly as the body was paraded down into the kitchen. They would take the boy away and he'd never have to think about him again. It was just a strange, summer incident that hadn't changed a thing. In September they would head to Hogwarts, and all of this would be forgotten.

After all, they had a Dark Lord to destroy, didn't they?

* * *

"Back so soon?"

Edward whipped around, eyes adjusting rapidly to the bright exposure of this vast, white land. His gaze settled on an indistinguishable presence, fastened from the rough structure of his own body, and addressing him with a million borrowed voices. His included.

"Do you have an answer for me?"

Edward hung his head. This wasn't fair, he had hardly even made any progress at all. But how was he to know he would be _killed? _His time in that world had ended prematurely, and he had not found what he had been searching for.

As a matter of fact, he hadn't found much of anything. "Magic" had been an easily understood concept, but had generally remained an enigma by way of logic. It could bypass equivalent exchange, so it would have been essential in his solution, but he hadn't found any way to harness it. The information there on alchemy had been disastrous at _best_. Vague, twisted, wrong, and almost non-existent. He couldn't find the answer in anything that he had learned. He scoured his brain, searching for his answer, _any _answer, fervently. _Don't stop thinking, _he reminded himself, _don't stop..._

"You don't. You do not have the answer I desire...

...You have failed."

Ed's head shot up, his face stricken and his fists clenched. No. No! It couldn't be. He couldn't fail! He'd made a promise – to Alphonse – and he intended to keep it. He couldn't be beat. It couldn't have beaten him. It couldn't end this way. No. _Please, _oh no, _please._

"What about Al?" he cried, pitching himself forward so that he would be closer to this sentient being, desperation ripping unveiled through his voice. He found that moving hadn't really changed anything much at all and felt he could scream in frustration, "_What about Al?"_

"...Not only have you failed," Truth continued, a wicked grin pulling across his featureless face, "but you have died as well. Your time is up alchemist, no second chances. You've already used yours up, actually."

"I'm just going to die?" He asked quietly, voice barely a whisper, "Just like that? It's over?"

There was a heavy sigh, "Looks like it. In the end, you were more trouble then you were worth, weren't you?"

"_Please!" _Edward was shouting now, "there has to be something I can sacrifice in return for Al's body. There _has _to be..." he clenched his jaw in fierce determination. He had to at least find a way... There had to be some exchange he could make. He had to... Alphonse needed him. He'd made a promise. _There has to be..._

"What could you possibly give that I don't already have?" Truth laughed mirthlessly, "Your body, mind, and soul belong to the Gate now. You will cease to exist. Your gate will break and there will be no way for you to return. You've lost."

_No_

"No," he hissed, voice nearly inaudible, "no, no, no, no, no, _no..." _he trailed off, hands flying to his head to fist angrily in his hair. He shook himself vehemently from side to side, "No, no, no..."

"Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Al-che-mist!" Truth sang, and a cold twist of deja vu flooded Edward through to his bones. He covered his face with his right hand, jaw clenched tight and eyes screwed shut. _Shit. _He'd _failed._

Then another thought presented itself, a last ditch effort, and he stared at his metal hand as if it were a beacon of brilliant hope. "His soul," he exclaimed suddenly, "what about his soul? I came for his body but his soul should be fine."

"You're wrong," Truth grinned, and Edward was overcome with sudden devastation. His last hopes dashed. There was nothing left. "You forget that the fate of your brother's soul is tied directly to the fate of your own. It is your blood that binds his soul to the physical world, which you no longer belong to.

You've died alchemist. Give up, there's nothing more you can do."

Ed's heart sank; and he was struck abruptly with the true finality of it all. This really was the end**;** he wasn't getting out of this. He had nothing left to give. Nothing left to exchange. His life no longer belonged to him, because he had lost it. There was no equivalency he could think of to get it back. There was nothing left. Nothing at all.

"His soul isn't lost though, not gone," Truth added, and Ed glanced up at him in confusion, _hadn't he just said? _"Trapped, more like, though eventually his gate will claim him – poor boy, who knows how long he'll wait for you t o return."

Edward growled, this was sick. This was terrible. "You can't do that!" He cried out, brows furrowing and eyes narrowing dangerously in his new found anger.

"I have to, there is no way to reverse these things Edward Elric. You no longer have any control." Truth explained the situation to him as if he were a small child, unsure of the rules of a game. And perhaps he was. An infinitesimal, childish fool who thought he could conquer the universe with his will. Perhaps he was wrong. Edward was left stricken once more with the blunt discovery of this reality. As he always was when his own meaninglessness was presented to him so readily.

Before he could really grasp the moment, however, really _truly _understand that it was over – that it was _all _over – the gate was opening. It stretched wide its maw and soundlessly reached out for him with avaricious, grasping hands. In those last few seconds Edward watched the Truth with a strange sense of clarity, adrenaline flooding his veins and slowing everything down, sharpening the edges. The being was not smiling, not laughing, not even pleased, it seemed; expressionless. He was silent.

"Goodbye, Mr. Alchemist." Truth uttered, and in the moment before the gate shut tight around what was once Edward's life – around Edward himself – he noticed that the Truth seemed unusually somber.

Then the great gate shut tight – his gate – and broke away into nothing.

Then it was over. Then it was _all _over.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_denouement: the outcome or resolution of a doubtful series of occurrences, the end._


	15. Antemortem

_**Disclaimer: **_I own nothing! Nothing at all! Not a house, or a mouse, or a fox wearing socks, in a box. :)

_**A/N: **_Wow, guys, thanks for all thinking that the story was over -_-' . Haha, but really, if you're one of the freaking tons of people who thought the last chapter was... Well, the last chapter, then you were _wrong! _And you're probably _happy_ about that! :D It's okay that you didn't read my author's note that said, "Next chapter... blah blah blah" because I got a lot of fun out of reading all the "NO! DON'T END IT THERE!" reviews! And there were, SO MANY too! Thank you all so much!

So here's the deal. This is unbeta'd because I'm going on Spring Break and want to get this out here first. Also, (Nominate this for the Goldworth Award? I'd love you forever, haha) it's not the whole chapter I had written, but I figure it's as good a place to stop as any.

* * *

_**Rue**_

_**Chapter Fifteen**_

_**Antemortem**_

* * *

_What about Al?_

_ His soul isn't lost..._

_ You no longer have any control._

_ ...Who knows how long he'll wait for you to return._

_ Give up..._

_ No, no, no..._

_ Yes, yes, __**yes, **__Mr. Al-che-mist!_

* * *

One week later found Cornelius Fudge contacting _that one man_ he knew, the one who knew _that one guy _who could arrange for _that one thing_ he needed. He had plenty of connections. He was the minister after all. He shouldn't really have ha to go through so much trouble for such a silly matter, but he honestly just wanted it out of his hair; the sooner the better.

Dumbledore probably planned this all out in advance, the difficulty of the entire rotten situation. Bad enough such a young boy had suffered a magical accident of the sort, but such a strange case too! And how was he honestly supposed to learn anything from this occurrence and still keep it quiet? That was purely preposterous. He couldn't let the news get out about the boy and his death, because it would be bad for his image.

So, rather than learn from the... Unfortunate casualty, he chose a less complicated solution, albeit a wee bit underhanded.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Deny. Deny. Deny.

If it never happened, he wouldn't have to deal with the consequences. There were plenty of people who would trip over themselves to observe the corpse; people who assured him enthusiastically that there were benefits in the situation.

All he could think about was how horrid it would be if Dumbledore learned of anything they discovered.

No, presently they were on an even playing field, and it was better that was. (Anyway, he was gaining ground in the battle daily, as more and more people refused to fall for the wizened old man's lies. He controlled the government, let's see a half-mad, ancient headmaster top that. It was very unlikely.)

Still, wouldn't do to go around doing him favors.

The phone hit the receiver with a clang that was accompanied only moments later by Fudge's throaty chuckle of success. The irony of it all was beautiful. The area was so remote it wouldn't be at all suspect, and wasn't it the perfect place to discreetly dispose of this bother? This burden that he had not asked for?

Buried in the supposed "resurrection" site of the Dark Lord. The whole thought of it made him giddy with the ridiculousness of it all. How ludicrous! How perfect!

The best part was that he wouldn't even have to be there. Good. He hadn't even looked at the body yet, and he didn't want to. Didn't want to feel inclined to spend any more of his time on the fallen teenager. There were bigger things to worry about. His family would accept his disappearance before long, kids went missing all the time. They didn't even know the boy's name, let alone have any clue of where he came from, it would be impossibly hard to find any of his relatives. No, he didn't want to see the boy, because he did not want to feel any unnecessary guilt.

_Put it out of your head, _he reminded himself, _it's out of your hands now._

* * *

Everything was opaque, solid and spiraling around him at speeds faster than he could (can) comprehend. Dark like night but so bright he felt the burning sensation right through his mind. A sharp pain, like a knife cutting deep within his flesh, piercing swift and strong before burrowing into the meat of his body with ease. Yet he had no body, he was not tangible (is not), was not present, was not physical. He no longer _was _at all...

(Is?)

(Where was he?)

...and he was confused in the face of such a perception. If he _wasn't, _then how could he _be _(_be _right now, be _being, _are, is, being, right at this moment; thinking, looking, feeling, _confused._) The answer to the question of his existence, he knew, was an arcane, hidden secret – beyond his reach. He... He could – reach? Could he reach? If he could, well, wouldn't that be something. (Could he?)

_What would I reach for?_

He humored this _reaching _possibility while trying to push the constant pain into the back of his mind – if he could reach, he could very well push as well. Or perhaps it worked the other way around. Maybe he could reach, _because _he was pushing; maybe that was proof of his ability to... To... (Be?)

_Be reaching?_

The pain was dreadfully persistent though, sobering, and in mere moments (possibly, unless this was timeless, empty – what _was _this? – it felt as if it very well could have been) he discerned a change in his own subsistence. A lucidity that he had not possessed just before, in the time before this, however long ago that may have been. Clearer, thing were clearer now, yet still so vague. Still a conundrum. Puzzling.

_Stop._

He thought the word before he could even remember what it meant. Even when he had successfully grasped its definition he still could not conceive a real reason for letting the sentiment escape the tumbling chaos of his subconscious, so sharp, and so discernible. Then he realized that, in his increased clarity his pain had elevated in its intensity. It ripped through the world, shook the skeleton of his current life (was he _living?) _with great, uncontrollable tremors. Electricity. He could see nothing.

Then, just as quickly as it all had came, it was gone.

(Had it come quickly?)

(Had it left quickly?)

He saw something new, a discovery, he knew – _this is an epiphany._

_ What would I reach for?_

_ Alphonse, _he thought without any hesitation, feeling a strange new emotion grip his very soul. _Alphonse, _he reminded himself later, when he began to forget, the horrible, wicked intensity of...

Desperation.

The word flew to him from nowhere, from a crazy bedlam of unexplainable sensation. Escaping its jail and running through his mentality unhindered and unobstructed. _Desperation! _Shouted a thought. _Desperate! _Sobbed another. _Alphonse, _one agreed, and he felt like nodding his consensus.

_Alphonse._

* * *

Swim. He was swimming. Lost in a deep sea of black sludge and tar, fiery against his skin. It was pulling him down, there was an angel at his toes, licking his salty flesh and whispering promises through soft lips. She had wings of hope and loss but not enough words. _Love, _he heard her call, begging for him to come to her, _forever. Protect. Stay. Peace. Relax. Joy. _But she didn't have to word he wanted to hear, the name, the call, the echoing... _(Alphonse!) No_ – he would deny a psiren any day, temptation was more of an annoyance than a real obstacle – no, no NO! He pushed himself onward in the slowest motion his muscles had ever performed. Yet he was moving forward, and he wanted to laugh at the angel – but she was gone, and possibly was never there to begin with – who had attempted to woo him into submission without his brother's name passing form her lips. That was _impossible._

_ Alphonse_, he remembered, digging upwards and outwards and away. _Alphonse. What would I reach for? _There were wings, he could see them, strong and beautiful – they did not belong to him. Whispers in his ears, pressure crushing his body, water all around him, oxygen condensing into little air pockets of gasping, dancing, gas, falling, rising, _Alphonse._

There was a maelstrom of sound, a thousand echoes of screams and laughter. He had no ears to hear with but this cacophony of sounds, this pandemonium was unbearable. Too much. Everything was shaking. He had no eyes but his vision wavered, flashed, left, blanked out, _black, black, black, _returned – and he could see again. Blink (could he blink?) _blink, _pause, think for a moment, and then there were a million colors.

He could feel his feet moving beneath him. Moving faster, quicker – he had feet? He _was? _Running. Forward.

_What would I reach for? _

There was something before him, in the far distance. It was tantalizingly close, always, though, always just too far away. Always just far enough away. Always away. Always just... Always reaching...

...For...

..."Alphonse!"

The sound of a voice came as a surprise. Somehow louder then all the other noises, somehow his brother's name. Did someone know the same things he knew? Were they up ahead too? Just out of reach? Always? "Alphonse!" It came again, and was it _his _voice? Did he have a voice? (Who was he? _Was _he?)

He felt as if he had risen into the air suddenly, all previous sensations of pressure and pain slipping off of him and falling down into the chasm of nothingness beneath him. An endless land of uncertainty he had inhabited only just before. (Was it before?) Now it was as if he were walking across a bridge. A bridge of light, and hope, and desire, craving, covetous – now, different, corrupted and guilty. Think now, "I _am_, I _be_, I _want." _

_ What will I reach for? _

_ What do I want?_

Forward. Forward. Onward. Advancing. Fast. Fast. _Fast. _Something, still, was there. It was just out of his reach. Always out of reach.

_Alphonse.  
_Determination flooded through him without warning, threatening to wash him backward with the force of its wave. Instead, it flooded over his entire being, seeping through the cracks of his subconscious and phasing through the environment molecule by molecule, metaphor by hallucination (What was real? What was not?). It gathered behind him, roaring like a great beast of liquid passion and quivering with the force of its power; an incarnate of tenacity. Propelling him forward. _Reaching. _

_ What would I reach for?€_

_ Alphonse._

* * *

"I thought he would leave all the way. I was wrong."

"What are you talking about?" Harry's jade green hues looked at him with curious scrutiny. Ron fidgeted under his gaze, nervous for no particular reason. Because he was about to bring up the boy, most likely, and the subject always gave him the jitters. It was the dreams that haunted him now. _Now, _that is, as in now; as well as at night, it seemed.

"The boy. He died and they took him away but he won't leave me alone," Harry looked at him incredulously, as if he had just sprouted a snout from the front of his face, or if he were sure his red-haired friend had gone daft, so Ron quickly elaborated, "I have dreams about him."

Not that _that _sounded any better.

"I'm always thinking about it," he continued hurriedly, watching Harry's face struggle with indecision that he couldn't quite make out, "I guess I hadn't known how much it bothered me that I didn't know anything about him until now. Now we'll never know."

His friend nodded resolutely at this, and Ron was relieved he understood what the hell he was trying to get at. He wasn't even sure he quite understood how his low-rate explanation could be pieced together to make a sensible thought himself. Harry was replying before he could think on it too much though, "The atmosphere is all different too, so much tension all the time. Especially around Snape, and sometimes even Moody."

"I'm never _looking _at Snape again if I can help it. It was _his _fault the boy died; he practically murdered him!"  
"It was horrible," Harry agreed quietly. Ron thought that it was almost relieving to talk of that day. They had not spoken of it at all, and now there was a huge sense of lightness flooding throughout his chest.

"I've never seen so much blood," Ron commented, determined to keep the ball rolling, "and it was all from inside him. Poor Hermione, when she tried to get him to start breathing again –"

"I think that she's the one who's the most shook up about it," the dark-haired boy said – Ron thought that this might not be true, he was probably at least in the running for the "most shook up" award – sitting on his bed and crossing his legs beneath him.

Ron fingered the old patchwork quilt he sat atop and found himself thinking that maybe Harry was right. Maybe Hermione was just as hung up on it as he was. It might do them both some good to talk about it – though the thought of that had him fending off a blush, for whatever reason. He could probably tell her about the dreams. She had been close to the boy after all, friends maybe, they certainly had talked enough. Ron imagined that it must be just as much of a shock to her to head to the study after lunch and find no one there as it was for Ron to awaken and immediately look for the stretching, already dressed boy each morning, only to be met with a mostly empty room and a still sleeping Harry Potter. (She hadn't been _close _to him, he supposed, but anyone who had been around him for more than a few minutes at a time could probably be considered the people nearest to him.)

It bothered Ron that they had never found out his name either. The boy had clearly been playing a game of sorts with them, content to keep them guessing and keep his self-identity shrouded in mystery. He wondered if Hermione still guessed his name each day.

_Today, _he though, with a slight frown, _I would guess John. Or maybe Eric.  
"Who are you?"_

_ "I'm dead."_

Ron shivered, recalling the question that seemed to always return to the front of his mind as he slept. He had hardly ever remembered his dreams in the past, and he recalled these so well that it almost worried him.

No. It did worry him.

"Yeah," Ron agreed, "I'm sure she is. Especially after she cleaned the blood out of his throat. Looked like she'd be sick."

"And it still didn't work," Harry added, then his face crumpled into disgust, "I looked as if I'd be sick too, I'm sure, and we both know you did."

The red-head nodded, not feeling up to defending his masculinity at the moment, "Don't think I've ever been so bloody scared," he admitted, his hands squeezing at his knees.

"It was pretty terrifying!" Harry said – though Ron was sure his friend had seen scarier things. Namely, Voldemort's return, which was what they should probably all be worried about at the moment. I twas all so stressful. He felt so relieved to know that it wouldn't be long before they could go back to Hogwarts.

Not that something dangerous and exciting wouldn't happen there – in all likelihood trouble just followed them around – but at least there wouldn't be any mysterious teenage boys bleeding out on the kitchen floor.

Then he thought about how the house elves in the kitchen would react to something like that, and even though the thought was morbid, it actually sort of cheered him up.

* * *

He felt an inexplicable connection to his brother...

(And he reveled in the sensation of lucidity. He _knew _he had a brother. He _knew _what he felt like, physically, and now, mentally. He _knew _he was done for, dead, gone. He _knew _it was all over.)

...and it was his state of _death _that made this all the more worth holding on to.

Perhaps, just maybe – though he had thoroughly hoped (_begged, pleaded) _for it not to be so – the reason for this odd new bond was that their souls were here together. Had Al's gate finally claimed every last piece of him.

How long had he been here?

There was a golden beam of light before his eyes, with such great effulgence that it burned his very soul simply with its appearance. It was so terribly, tremendously bright, and Edward felt as if he would simply be unable to exist before its radiance, should it keep this up. (_The sun, _he pondered this briefly, _just a burning, writhing mass of hydrogen.)_

Yet as he neared it, his eyes began to adjust to the brilliance. Conflagrant as the heat surrounding him seemed, he was far too interested to be concerned over the anguish coursing through his veins. And in all his time here, he had become accustomed to all sorts of different types of pain. As he felt his very soul blossom in crimson welts and rise up in blistering essence he saw a perfect thread.

A single thread, thin as can be, and so easily breakable.

For some unexplainable reason (he felt like he was looking into a _mirror) _he felt an extreme desire to protect it. This single strand of thread was desperately valuable to him, and he couldn't understand why.

It was fashioned form light, different frequencies and multiple wavelengths, as well as a major amount of separate kinds of radiation, he could tell just by looking at it. Glowing neon gases that collected around the strings of illumination and pulsated in a gently roaming dance (but someone was screaming, moving quickly, running away, _vanished). _Blue-shift that brought the thread of light always closer, moving in a cyclic motion, again and again bending inward on itself.

Maybe this light didn't even have technicalities, components, a chemical make up, but all the same his scientific mind placed terms and definitions where they belonged. He felt hyper aware of himself, of his empty pulse in this place. A silent testament of his heart in his mind only.

He thought it was a wonder he was still whole.

He had fully expected to be broken down immediately, brought in to the median of his own transmutation process. Deconstructed, not to be reconstructed again. Gone, alchemized, transmuted away.

Maybe that's what this inferno of burning, blinding light was. Some sort of alchemical typhoon meant to rupture his composition (_break, _tear and pull) and decompose his form in the most beautiful of ways. He wondered if his soul would be broken down as well, or if only the physical attributes of his being would be lost. And what of his mind? Would that depart from his body, or perhaps stay anchored to his soul? (If his soul is indeed meant to remain, that is.) Should he ever sense time again? Would he be forever curious as to the results of his ended existence? He wondered how long he had been here, if anyone else had died – perhaps it had been years – if he would meet them here. Mostly, though, _will I ever see Al again? _

He felt confused a moment later..

(Flurries of light darted past him and away into his peripheral view, dancing just beyond his reach and burning stark, swirling patterns within his retinas. Colors surrounded him, separating and merging and curving around his body in a prism of phosphorescence. A feeling of deja vu expounded its way through his form, and he was reminded of the first time he saw the Truth. The images and colors and knowledge that ha surrounded him then; that had forced their way into his head. This was tremendously alike, only a million times more potent. Power surged around him, pulling on the reigns of his soul and challenging him. Challenging him to do _something_, but he just didn't know _what.)_

...for normally this thought would awaken millions of _wanting _feelings within him, _guilty _regrets, painful reminders of his failures. A contemplation of the fate of he and Al's ability to be with one another should have made him stagger any day, made him uneasy and passionate, angry. Yet he felt calm. He simply watched the thread of terrible, dazzling light as it compressed further and further, somehow still stretching impossibly far into the brightness. He was overwhelmed with such a feeling of content that he paused. What was it about this light that so easily erased the burden's of his soul?

It reminded him of the way Al made him feel. _Safe. Wanted. Significant._

He thought of this as he reached out – with fingers, or, perhaps, strong tendrils of embodied, streaming consciousness – for the thread. The moment his hand closed around it he was covered in cool water, refreshing mist that sprinkled hope across his aching soul. He was drifting in a clear blue lake, bathing in the sky. He was following the thread to its very end.

It felt like he was chasing the end of a rainbow, and he fully expected there to be a pot of gold awaiting him. (He didn't even take more than a second to ponder the lameness of that thought, but rather embraced it, for it's truth.)

The thread of light began to thin as he moved onward, as he grew tired, and he felt that perhaps this was why. Or, maybe, he was simply nearing the end. He could not become truly tired anyway, only weary in existence, and the age of this he might never know. To think that he might be about to find the end of this wondrous beacon of determination, this pillar of cool, calming strength, did not distress him. He felt suddenly prepared, ready for anything that he may find ahead. He would face it. He was strong.

* * *

**_A/N: _**So, yeah. There's some development there :)

_Antemortem - Before death. _


	16. Sanguine

**_Disclaimer: _**I don't own either of them! So sadddd.

**_A/N: _**Couple things. My computer has died. Full-scale death and all, and that is why I am posting this now and not later when it has been completely beta'd and also not working on other things any of you could possibly be awaiting me to work on. Because I don't know when I'll have another chance to get on a computer. (This is my mother's and that can hardly ever happen.) Uh, so... Here you go.

Also! This chapter is for RyuRosuto, because I had greatly offended them without knowing so (haha) and I must apologize! :D

And for everyyyonnee who reviewed, because I love you guys. And for all of you for putting up with me, I know it's hard.

* * *

**_Rue_**

**_Chapter Sixteen_**

**_Sanguine_**

* * *

_'A single thread, thin as can be, and so easily breakable.'_

His grasp on he thread tightened as he neared the end. Too soon. Already. (How long had it been?) He wasn't ready to be done looking, to be done searching for his solution. Because...

(Was this the end? Really? Truly?)

He could see where the small, quivering mass of light thinned out into a single beam so miniscule he could hardly observe it, and continued on this way until he could, finally, _not. _Then there was nothing. A literal perceiving of nothing. He could think of no adjectives to describe it, no words befitting its mystery. He wasn't even sure _mystery _would work to describe it. It simply _was not (is not) (are not) (were not) (?). _He could bare witness to nothing – this nothing – not even blackness or never ending white. Pure and simple...

...absence.

'_Will I be nothing when I go there?'_

He wondered this with little concern over the answer. He may or he may not, but it hardly mattered. He had made an unconscious decision to enter this space – one that he could not ever remember making – and it would happen without question. Of that he was sure. _'It's just one of those things,' _he thought, _'like this whole damn place.'_

He hadn't even realized he was moving toward this... _end, _until he was there. He was calm. He as happy. He _was..._

..._not._

(And everything was gone.)

* * *

When his eyes shot open – faster than they ever had before – the world tilting around him in a terribly familiar rocking that frightened him to his core, he was shocked. He _was_.

Because he was pretty sure that he was dead, and this was close to death, but it certainly _wasn't... _Also.

Yes, he was shocked. And then ––

Then a flood of hope washed through him, so quickly that he felt as if it was a raging tsunami; all-encompassing as it tore over his flesh and pulled away his resignation. He almost swooned, so strong was the feeling. Yet a moment later another came, just as strong, and suddenly he was mad, furious, angry at himself, and scared, because he never knew that he could give up, and now he realized that _give up_ was exactly what he had done. He had accepted his fate – it was so uncharacteristic of him, so terrible, but it had seemed like the only option – and yet here he was.

Bless his god damn luck.

This was proof that he could survive. He could still succeed. He was _sure! _He just had to figure out what the hell was going on, find a solution, push through. _Still, _why was he still here? Still alive?

Mostly alive – that is, _'I think.'_

The gate stood before him, whole, un-shattered, and the Truth was nowhere to be seen.

It occurred to him with a crazed gasp that he could breathe in this place, and that he had his forehead pressed against the stone of this great presence, his fists grinding into stone on either side of him. When had he moved? It didn't matter, but there was something wrong. Something about it felt... Different.

Hadn't his gate broken? Wasn't he supposed to be dead?

_"Brother?" _

Edward frowned at the voice, his eyes widening in surprise, his fingers tightening, blunt nails digging into his palms. His teeth sank deep into his lower lip until he tasted the metallic tang of his own blood. It was relieving to know that he could still bleed, and unnerving that the taste was so familiar to him.

But it was horrifying to hear his mind playing such dirty, rotten tricks on him.

_"Al," _he whimpered, without thinking, "oh _Alphonse... _Oh _shit..."_

"Brother!"

Now, _then, after, _NOW he shook, frozen in time (_never, _it's not _possible_ – but – ) afraid to turn around and face disappointment. In the face of which he would surely shatter.

What was going on?

"Brother! _ED!"_

Then he was around, his muscles moving on their own accord, loyal to _that _voice. To _Alphonse. _Al, Al, his little brother...

...he was _right there._

In his excitement he nearly bowled the frail boy over, hugging him so tightly to his own body that he was sure they could only form one person as a result. He inhaled, the biggest, most wonderful breath he had ever taken, and all he could smell was his little brother. He was real. He was right here, right in front of him, flesh and blood and bone and nerves and lymph nodes and atrium and tendon, ligaments, cartilage, _dermis, lungs, liver, kidney, alveoli..._

_..._He was –

_Here?_

Why?

Even in its – he was so happy, so unbearably happy, and Al was sobbing into his strong shoulder, chest heaving – rampant state, jumping from one instance of good news to the next and emotions so painfully strong he could choke on them, (_Al's body. Al's soul. Al's alive. Al's here. Al. Al. Al.) _his brain still managed to compute the reason for his current situation. Working rapidly through the haze of heady excitement that was almost impermeable, it burst forth with possibilities.

But he knew, somehow, _he just knew. _That's why it had felt so odd when he had arrived here, because...

He laid his chin atop his brother's bowed head, whispering the words with a deceiving amount of disinterest into his flaxen hair, "This is _your _gate."

He stated the words quite blandly, with little doubt, and afterward he removed himself from Alphonse's embrace and glanced at the looming structure behind him. He thought of the thread he had found, the indescribable comfort of the light he had been drawn to, compelled to follow, convinced it was so _right, _so _perfect. _

He recalled the Truth's cruel honesty to him immediately following his death, as he placed his hand atop his little bbrother's hair, and watched his face with quiet wonder. He had said that their souls were still connected. That Alphonse would await him at the gate until eventually their souls would cease to exist together, and they would both be gone. Instead... It made so much sense! Al's soul had always been so much stronger than his, so resilient. Alphonse was so strong.

And once again, his brother's strength had kept him going.

"I.. Found the connection between our souls... and... I came out your gate?" he was talking out loud now not because he didn't know for sure that this is the reason, but because the story is so fantastic he can hardly dare to believe it himself. Al took the news in stride, glancing around at the white expanse surrounding them – needlessly. What was there to see, after all?

"Yeah, I guess so."

"That means..."

"This is both of our gates now?" Al murmured, staring up at the large stone sentinel overlooking their reunion. Edward was amazed at how normal conversing with Alphonse seems already. So... _Correct._

But his brother's eyebrows are furrowing in the next instant, and he is blinking furiously, looking strangely disoriented.

Ed panicked when he saw it, and his strong hands (one is still metal, what does that mean for them?) are quick to rip Al's shoulders, steadying him. "Al? What's happening?"

"We both have to go back now," Al responds without pause, and it sounds almost sagely coming out as an explanation like that. Ed does not doubt how he knows this. His brother is more in tune to this place than any other and for that he feels endlessly guilty.

"It'll work though? Because I'm back out...? And – and you? What's happening to _you?"_

Al's fingers gripped his automail tightly, and Ed understood before he even had to elaborate, "You gave your arm up again, remember, my soul was called back here because your soul was trapped. But now that your soul is free again..."

Ed hugged him and cut off his explanation. They're so unbelievably lucky that it astounds him, and he swore to _every _God he didn't believe in that he would make up for his mistakes. "Stop Al," he whispered into his brother's ear, thinking hard about the warmth of his body, his real body, so that later he can remember what he's fighting for, that it's real, that it's possible. He is savoring being with his little brother in the flesh for the first time in years and years, before his soul leaves the body alone in this hue less prison once more, "I promise I'll fix you. I always have promised, and I still will, nothing's changed."

"Don't you _dare _die again," Al scolds, quivering now, "I – "

"I wouldn't!" Ed is adamant, and slightly appalled, if he dies, Al will die, he is sure of that either way, "I'm so sorry!"

"I believe in you brother."

They clutch at one another for another long moment, Ed mumbling promises the whole time, "I will get your body back. I'll bring you home... I'll fix everything... I'm sorry... _so sorry... _I'll get it... I'll do... Whatever... It takes.. _Fix... Sorry..."_

"I can't," the voice is different now, strange, "can't help you, you know," Edward launched himself out of Al's embrace with a sudden urgency he can't describe, _"you're not my soul."_

"I know," he replied, his teeth grinding together and his jaw setting in a countenance of determination, but there was sorrow in his eyes, "I know, but one day I'll get you to come with me, I promise, just you wait."

The gate – Al's gate – has opened behind him a long time ago, but he only notices it when he follows the empty gaze of Al's body. His brother is naked, he also discovers, and find it strange he did not notice before. The fragility of his form and the protruding edges of his rips, his gaunt, sunken cheeks, and his impossibly thin neck fills Edward with such a furious burst of guilt and anger that he feels as if he will explode.

He might.

"Just you wait – "_'I know I've said it before but – ' _"I'll do whatever it takes."

* * *

His eyelids have never felt so heavy, and it takes him an eternity to peel them away from his eyeballs. He's gasping in giant breath after giant breath, and all he can see is darkness.

Honestly, he's panicking. He has no idea what's going on, but he must be even more dead than he was before, because he's never seen this much darkness in his life. He's had his fair share of aphotic, terror-filled moments, but nothing that has ever been this black. There was pressure everywhere. All he can feel is the emptiness surrounding his body, embodied, closing in on him, pushing down on his bones, crushing him. (And the air is leaving his lungs – so he breathes harder, faster – even though he's sucking in air like a fish out of water.) He's flopping around uselessly on the shore, his lungs are the wrong way out, and nothing's working. He's in a box, he'd dead, he can't breathe, he's lost somewhere beyond hell, he can't breathe, he's gone, and he can't breathe...

...and he _must _still be dead. Except... Except this feeling right now, he _feels _like he's dying. He's terrified, he's quivering, cold, scared, his heart is pounding its way out of his chest, and his lungs are burning _somuchsomuchsomcuh._

Wait.

Hold on.

His pulse quickens beneath his skin, _but that's just it – _he'd shout for joy if he had any air to do so with – his _heart! _Pumping blood through his veins! He had a heart! He was alive!

_And he couldn't breathe!_

His eyes shoot open and he stares out wide-eyed into the dark all around him, his heart – his _heart – _seizing up in fright. Grappling with reality (because he's alive, so alive, but it feels like he's dying) he realizes that there's a problem. He's alive, yeah, but something's _wrong. _**His brain's working in overdrive almost instantly, like an engine running fast on nothing,** and he knows with no real trouble (besides the not breathing thing, which _is _real trouble) that this is because there _is no oxygen._

He's closed in somewhere, obviously. Tightly, securely, because there's nothing for him to breathe; he woke up gasping and now he's used up whatever Oxygen was in here to begin with.

_What do I need? _He thinks, terrified beyond belief as his thoughts get fuzzier. They do not, however, slow down, and he urges his brain to work harder, to keep pushing. Faster.

_Oxygen. ATP. Glycolysis. Krebs Cycle. FADH2. Oxidative phosphorylation. ATP synthasyze. Peruvic Acid. _His thoughts are disjointed but he can examine them anyway. He's got all these words and terms running through his head when he suddenly realizes that in his panic he's thought only of what he needs to perform in his own processes. He's bursting with information on Cellular Respiration – _C6H12O6 + 6O2 = 6CO2 + 6H20, 36 ADP +36P = 36 ATP – _when he should be thinking of the complete opposite.

_Photosynthesis, _his brain has rooted out the simplest formula now, the easiest path to survival.

It's useless though, because as far as he knows photosynthesis is impossible with alchemy. A process so simply _organic_ that it can't be replicated for it is too much like alchemy in itself; transmuting one thing into another using the ingredients surrounding it. Yet – 6CO2 + 6H20 = 602 + C6H1206 _– _there was something right there, something creeping behind his eyes, worming through his nerves.

_Photoautotrophs. 100 terrawatts. Chlorophyll. Calvin Cycle. Reverse Kreb's Cycle. Carbon fixation._

_You can do it, _it whispered, persistent, _you know how. You know how. You do..._

Edward's chest was alight with flaming agony now, every muscle of his body tight against the strain. _Stay conscious, _he struggled, his hands curling into fists, _stay conscious, don't go down now. Don't be beaten. Stay here. _

He thought quickly, he had all the components he needed. If he was an autotroph all he would need would be _sunlight, _and he couldn't create Oxygen without such an important factor. Even if he had sunlight (even if he wasn't a heterotroph), he wouldn't be able to really concentrate it within any sort of transmutation.

Composition – of – of – of sunlight? Radiation... and... the color spectrum – that was important too, the three primaries – and... _UVC, UVB, UVA, Infrared-A, -B, -C, visible..._ short wavelength. A solar simulation, energy release... (like during a transmutation, but _more, more, more) _Nuclear fusion! (Crazy, crazy, that's _crazy_, but he _couldn't breathe!) _He worked out the mass of iron quickly in his panicked mind. He needed it lower. A lower mass. Calming himself, he sucked in on giant breath – _that's it for now, that's it, gotta hold it – _and focused on the composition of the air all around him. Smaller, smaller, smaller, smaller, _smaller, _so small and there are atoms, and everything is made of millions of tiny pieces. The universe is gigantic and the building blocks are microscopic. Then control, he had to have control, he had to be prepared, for the energy, the combustion; the _explosion. Hydrogen. _He had Hydrogen all around him, inside of his own body, all those little atoms.

No, wait. The iron... that was wrong. He'd thought he needed a lower mass than iron, and he did but... That didn't matter. He was... was he wrong? Off topic? (He had to know, had to be precise, positive, completely sure.) Heavier isotopes now, nucleons converging, _and... and then... _He struggled to hold his breath, not to suck in the Carbon Dioxide he knew wouldn't do him any good anyway... _and one neutron, _at the end, _hydrogen, isotope deuterium. _But...

He had no more time to think... He needed clarity... Simple... Simplify... And...

_'Think Ed, think.'_

Nuclear fusion is a concept that is completely beyond him, beyond all the scientists of both his world and this world for decades to come. And yet, his distressed brain could find no other options. He knew, in his brain, the logical part – the part that he, in actuality, didn't use very often – that there were surely a million other ways to create sufficient energy but...

_'You won't be able to contain it', _a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

_'That's crazy', _he thought, a nuclear reaction of the magnitude he had considered would be practically impossible to contain. '_That's crazy.'_

_'It's the only way. The only thing that will work.'_

He knew these were his own thoughts, but he still had the sneaking suspicion that they were influenced by something... else...

It was more than likely.

It was a basic concept (_he couldn't breathe_) two lightweight nuclei close enough together (_his lungs were burning_) that the nuclear – the residual strong – force in their individual (_Oh God_) nuclei would pull them into one another. They would fuse (_No air. No air._) and generally – _hopefully, _they _had _to – they would form one single nucleus with a slightly smaller mass than the sum of (_can't breathe, can't..._) the original two masses. The difference in mass would be released (_he needed more time_) and... and... no, it was too complicated. He didn't have enough time to work all the specifics out. He would need a lab, materials, maybe a year or two as well. Obviously (_Oh God, his lungs were so empty.) _he did not have anything of the sort... and... and he was...

...already fighting unconsciousness, the darkness all around him turning into an undeniable pressure behind his eyes...

_'I'd have to heat up the atoms significantly,' _he reasoned, trying to focus, trying to form the circles in his mind, '_reduce them down to simplified nuclei, less...'_

_'...complex...'_

_'...lighter.'_

He could hardly even remember how to move his hands anymore, and attempting to do so only made him realize how badly his entire body was trembling.

He'd never held his breath this long in his entire life... How long... had it even been?

There was no more time.

He had no more time...

...too long–

–and... and... he couldn't...

His hands clasped together before him – not quite a clap, it was too weak a motion to make any

sort of noise at all – and the transmutation started before he even had a chance to move his hands apart. Before he even had a chance to think the whole thing through. Incomplete.

In the light of the transmutation he could see the extent of his... encasement. Wooden walls – so close, closing in – on all sides of him. Only feet apart. There was no question about it. He'd seen enough of them to know when he was inside of one.

A coffin.

Which meant that he was buried alive.

Alright, he could deal with that. At least now he knew where he stood... _Lay_...

(At least they hadn't burned his body.)

The lights from the reaction faltered and he cursed himself. His attention was slipping (so was his awareness, his lucidity – _he couldn't breathe_) and he had lost his focus on his hardly-developed equation. He couldn't afford to. It was working. It was _actually_ working...

It really was.

He had no idea how, and he hardly cared, but he was doing it. The information was coming from _somewhere –_ he had a good guess as to where this could be – and he was putting it to use. He considered thanking a God that he didn't believe in for his abilities, both natural and learned, and for the loophole that had given him a third chance. But that was ridiculous, they had done this themselves, Edward and Alphonse, they would always pull through. They were _brothers. _They were _all each other had. _They _had _to.

Besides, there was nothing... Nothing but the Truth, and right now...

He had to squint against the violent spike in the intensity of brightness within the small space, his eyes felt as if they would dry up, as if all the water in them would evaporate and they would burn out of his sockets. He struggled to stay observant of the reaction, to keep it contained, but it was as if a small sun had been born in his coffin...

...and it had.

Nanoseconds trickled by slower than ever before, and he felt frozen in the midst of his burning fusion. Yet it was so amazing. _He_ had created this, out of _nothing. _This _heat _and_ flame_ and _power_, and he wondered idly if the wooden walls of his death bed could catch on fire. That would be unfortunate.

So he had to stay in control, even if his mind was threatening to shut down, even if his body was more than willing to tune him out and take over. If he surrendered to unconsciousness now, not only would his body attempt to breathe this oxygen-deprived air, but the reaction would also expand uncontrollably, conflagrate, _explode. _He had no idea where he was located, he could take out an entire city, maybe more.

There was no other option but success.

And in twenty-eight more milliseconds – milliseconds that felt much more like decades than undera quarter of a full second – he found it.

Energy seeped through his entire body with such spontaneity that he jerked upward, slamming his head against the wood above and scalding his hip on the reaction.

It was the hottest thing he'd ever felt, ever _would _feel, he was sure.

His mouth opened before he could stop it, a scream (that only lasted the slightest of moments in sound, with nothing to fuel it) escaped him and his lungs were left officially empty. He gasped at the air and found only fire in his throat and crawling across his skin. It took all of his will power to stay awake and not let his control the of the fusion slip.

But even though he could feel his flesh melting and burning and _smoldering _it wasn't the time to think about things like that. (_Oh God, was he on __**fire?**_)

If he lost focus, the rest of him would feel that way too.

Besides, his whole body was humming now, the pain forgotten, his lungs electrocuted. He wouldn't be surprised if he never had to breathe again. He felt such a rush, that he didn't even want to continue, he wanted to just stay right here, right in the middle of everything...

He could just stay like this... Forever.

But...

...Alphonse.

"_I believe in you brother."_

Hands just barely moving apart, only to touch once more, to deconstruct the reaction into pure energy. He needed to do this quickly, already he could feel the energy around him seeping away from his skin, into the ground, his control on the fusion falling out of his grasp, letting loose. Not now...

Not now.

One more joining of his hands, and he was onto another concept entirely. Fingers laced tightly together and lungs burning anew. He'd just made a contained nuclear reaction within his own coffin (despite himself, he felt a burst of pride swell up inside of him) at this point, photosynthesis should be a cinch. Right?

'_Try to picture yourself like an autotroph,' _he thought, eyes squeezing shut as the light of the fusion began to fade and the coffin was once again illuminated only by the light of the transmutation. '_The same way _(the pain was returning now, and while it had only been seconds, it felt like an eternity since the first transmutation had begun) _you imagined yourself as a Philosopher's Stone powered by a single soul.'_ It was a different thing entirely, picturing his own being as something completely different from what it really was. '_That day, when it was the only option you had. __**This **__is the only option you have. You have to... You have to breathe.'_ Whereas when he had used his own life force as fuel for that past transmutation it had actually been a part of him he was imagining. That was totally feasible, while this was altogether impossible. But... he had to do this. He _had _to.

An autotroph, encased in sunlight; they'd take all this energy in, suck up the Carbon Dioxide like a life-giving blessing they had been starved of. (He took a gasp of air that could not fuel his heterotroph of a body, but it helped him focus, in a roundabout almost-unconscious sort of way.) He pictured the hydrogen in his body. Hiding away in pockets of fat, outlining the hard points of muscles lying flat against his skeletal system, swirling through his digestive system, sitting on his tongue, dwelling idly within his epidermis, _everywhere._ This was still Human Transmutation, really, just less costly (maybe) and he was familiar with Human Transmutation. He could do this...

He just...

Had to...

...and create...

A burst of oxygen filled the coffin. So much that he felt as if it might suffocate him. That would be terribly ironic, and he thought, honestly, it would almost be appropriate to his life so far, if he died choking on air because he wanted too much of it, and it was coming too fast. Instead, though, he gaped, mouth wide-open and hands still clasped, desperately pulling at the Oxygen with his impoverished lungs. Once again he felt like a fish lying lonely on a dock, searching the air with a detached panic, dying slowly. Except he was coming back to life, it was dark here, and his lungs were right side in. Those were the differences. There were more, but who cared. _Coming back to life, _he humored, somehow, because it really was funny, _in a coffin._

In that moment, there weren't many things he loved more than breathing.

* * *

It's over, and he's breathing, and all he has to do now is get the fuck out of this hell hole. Fast too, because he's got a few problems at this point, and if he doesn't do something impossibly quick, there's gonna be no way to get out at all.

_One: _he's running out of Oxygen again. This isn't because he's breathed too much either, don't be silly, it's for an entirely different reason. Reason number two, that is.

_Two: _he's on fire. Now, when his hip had caught on the reaction and he had, in a sense, caught on fire due to the heat of the contained explosion, the terrible, pure, (wonderful) force, the heat was intense. The burst of Oxygen that had followed had not helped matters at all, as a matter of fact, he was very much _more _on fire now. The flames ate at the newly formed Oxygen – it's perfect, of course, he is Edward Elric after all, and if he wasn't on fire he'd be very impressed with himself – avariciously, lapping at the element with insatiable greed. He... Decides...

Nothing hurts like fire.

He doesn't scream, even though his lungs burn to waste precious energy. This isn't because he's being strong, either. No, it's because of practicality. Screaming would waste the Oxygen away even faster than it was already depleting. Beside that, screaming seems silly when there's no one around to hear you.

Even sillier when there is.

So he never does.

(Or tries his best, because sometimes it's just too hard.)

But nothing hurts like being on fire. He knows this now as he grapples against the wood above him, fingers clawing at the wood grain, an alchemical high sweeping over him. Pure adrenaline encompasses his body, he can see the shadows dancing all about his death bed, contrast too high because of the flames licking about on his body.

His hands find each other and they press together anxiously.

Yes, it's not because it's the worst pain he's ever experienced – he's never quite sure – it's not the most acute, the most fatal, or the most terrible.

It just hurts in a way that nothing else does. A separate, _unique _kind of hurt that he's never experienced. It's brand new, and he doesn't ever want to have to feel it again. All he can think about is all the people that have been engulfed in pure alchemical flames. Of a man who's snapping fingers would be better fit ruling a country than burning people.

_'Just like this,' _Ed thinks, picturing Mustang's fire, _'except everywhere.'_

In his panic induced, over-excited haze, all he can manage in response to this thought is a very small, weak wondering of...

..._'Ouch.'_ (Because it _must _hurt – _this _hurts – but to be _consumed _by this? Ouch.)

He's broken down the top of the casket already and it crumbles down upon him in the smallest, finest of particles. Dirt quickly precedes it, loose above the coffin, and even though the loose soil – it's good that it's loose, perhaps even been buried very long – is strangling and choking him, coarse between his teeth and scratching in his throat, he's also pretty sure that it'll smother that raging fire melting his cells. That, in itself, is a terrible relief.

Thankfully – he's not an idiot, of course – his hands are still close enough to work them toward one another, a second transmutation (or fourth) already formed in his mind. He's trapped in this weird high somewhere between being amazed by the sheer magnificence of the transmutations he'd just performed and the sharp confusion of the numbing pain. He's still buzzing with energy (energy that he's created) and the familiarity of alchemy after so long of being denied it.

So it's nothing for him to arch his fingertips up into the soil crushing him, working with the composition and seamlessly conducting a reaction that will make the dirt pull up and away form his prostrate form, compress, compact, _reconstruct. _First step to escape finally over and he's even gasping _real, fresh _air. It's about time.

It's more like the hundredth step, really, but the tunnel above him is so promising he wants it to be the beginning of a plan. It's funny how little, simple things can seem so important to him in such strenuous moments.

Honestly, he can't wait for his first just-got-back-from-being-dead-meal. It would taste fucking _delicious_; he had no doubts about that.

What very well could be voices wafted in from above him, but he could hardly bring himself to give a damn. He noticed with a tremendous amount of relief that he was no longer aflame, though he was sure that wound would pain him for a long, long time. He wasn't looking forward to the moment when he'd settled down enough so that he could feel it, or the exhausted state that these crazy transmutations would probably place him in.

He glares up at the dark around him, inky and thick, and his thought that maybe he'd interrupted his own funeral (because let's face it, that'd be pretty cool) was crushed by the obvious presence of _night _above him.

One more, deep, shaking breath. That's all he needs.

Then he's pressing his hands against the wood beneath him, fusing it without discrimination with the minerals of the ground all around. He hardly gives the action any thought, comfortable with this sort of work, and it flows from him unhindered. Beneath him the soil hardens, the tunnel above him widening to accommodate his form as he pushes himself upward, using the ground beneath him to raise him upward. He struggles to stand, to make himself ready for whatever could possibly be awaiting him out in the world for who-knows how long. His body feels insanely unsteady, and all he can manage to do is raise himself into an uneasy crouch before a wave of anguish rolls over him. The shock of it is staggering, and he loses the transmutation instantly, the remaining inches of soil falling around him, the top of his tunnel knocked lose by the lower soils pushing upward,. A growl rips from his throat and he plunges his right fist upward, grabbing tightly to whatever purchase he can find and levering himself above ground with a huge amount of effort. He can smell the fresh air already – there's dirt crunching between his teeth and thick around his tongue – and he's so anxious to be _outside. _To be _free. _To be _alive._

He's almost positive there are people up there now, but he hardly cares. He does, however, take an idle fraction of a second to mourn the almost-entirely-gone state of his clothes. It even looked as if parts of his pants had burned into the ruined skin of his left side, but he couldn't look at it for very long without feeling queasy. He wouldn't even look presentable.

At least he'd make a good entrance.

* * *

The grave yard was silent, the small cottage nearby looking impossibly ominous, watching over their every movement. Lord Voldemort stood tall listening to the wind as it brought the house's silent words wisping past his ears. _'You used to live inside of me,' _it hissed,_ 'but I've been gutted.'_

_'I spit you out and now see what you've become.'_

_'Powerful,' _he amends, as he overlooks the men that surround him, garbed in the darkest of robes. Not a word would be spoken until he had began to bequeath words of his own, he knew this. He would punish any who spoke out of line. Yet his silence was intimidating, unnerving, and perhaps he just _wanted _someone to crack. To send a simple inquiry his way so he could make them scream and bleed.

_'Steady,' _he reminded himself, _'these vile men are your allies.'_ Though it hardly begged a difference in his opinion, he mustn't lose too many followers out of pure spite. Advancement in scare tactics, sure, but there were a million other ways he could do the same.

Considering mercy at all felt very... Fundamentally... Wrong.

His endeavor with the squib was an all-but forgotten matter. He had hardly paid it any mind in the beginning, and had not figured it would pay of so dearly. It appeared that somehow, within the chaos he had fashioned, the idiots who opposed him had managed to off a small boy. A child, whose family was unknown, who was buried only ten days before in this very graveyard. Surely this would cause a great disruption on their end; for Dumbledore was nothing if not compassionate.

He thought he may be sick, just thinking of the old, wrinkly man's caring sorrow.

He also now knew that The Order had someone very powerful among them, someone who had wandlessly and mercilessly defeated his hell-bent, desperate, old wretch of an assassin. Which was more of a feat than it would first appear. Lucius had assured him that Revelier was no stranger to the killing of a wizard, all kinds of them, by word, perhaps in hopes to acquire some form of their magic. He was a psychologically lacking, to be blunt, but that did not mean he did not have skill in dealing death.

The man was a lunatic, and it was hilarious. So sad that he didn't have the opportunity to murder him himself.

This man they had was colder than the others. Sure – perhaps not Alastor, but Mad-Eye was so beyond crazed that his coldness was irrelevant, an entirely different species – and that was what made him the most pleased.

Ever cold man had his price. And Voldemort could always name that price.

"You gather before me to hear news of our progress, of our plans and unending prospects for the future," the Dark Lord weaved throughout the center of the circle like an ethereal being, governed by darkness and born of the night, "and I will not disappoint. We have grasped at the edges of omnipotence for many years, and we have been denied. Not only of power but of life, and the moment as come for us to not only possess those alms that we should already accommodate, but to _become _what had been denied us. We will _become _life, _become _power, and all those who wish to live will have to set out upon their knees and beg us for lenity."

An excited murmur rose up among the once cautious men as the Dark Lord's lips pulled back in a snarl of a mile. Anticipation was ripe in the air, the brevity of good sat apparent in the actualization of their imminent victory. Opposition was futile, victory was unquestionable, and each moment was a way post toward achievement. With a fever of dark titillation still buzzing around them, he moved on to more specific matters. Particularities that required some _sacrifice, _perhaps, but grieve lest you disappoint Lord Voldemort.

There were loyalties that needed to be reinstated, and only by means of freedom could such be acquired. There was manhood that must be reached, and the boy was to be brought before him, ripe with youth and fear and respect. To be assigned an adult's duty. A high honor denied of so many others and so well suited for his encumberment.

"Should you fail me..." he reminded the boy with a seriousness that would make old dragons of times of fire, long aged with wisdom and greatness, duck and cover before him. Yet the boy already knew of this fate. He had no options.

It was perfect.

The whole afternoon went rather to his liking not a moment or action he had not predicted came to pass.

That was, until the ground beside Goyle's feet shook and quivered, visibly cracking before all of their witness, and finally erupting with the cogent pitch of a fist through the soft crust of earth below them. There was no doubt that he was seeing a being rise from their grave, but such an impossibility was so beyond him that he was actually _shocked._

In the face of his own startlement – for this occurrence of uncontrolled emotion appeared less than never – induced a state of instant and odd panic upon the Death Eaters present. A scrambled defensive that consisted of putting themselves between the whole affair and their staggered master, wands drawn and tongues ready.

When the shock had faded, Voldemort unsheathed his wand as well, cradling the ancient wood within his fingers with a gentleness he reserved for this single item alone. Gathering himself, he prepared for whatever creature may rise from the maw of death before his very eyes.

.

.

And was unprepared for what he found.

Shadowed in the deep contrasting values of the night laden scene, it was difficult to discern the exact features o what had risen from the ground. But as he neared the being – which was staring up at him oddly, chest heaving breath catching in its throat, and attempting with great struggle to right itself – he could see that it was only a boy. No older than Potter.

That couldn't be.

_"Incarcerous," _he hissed, revealing his intentions – which actually involved a reasonable amount of curiosity – and was pleased to find that the creature did not move when the ropes and bindings flew toward him form Voldemort's wand. Capture without a struggle would be preferable.

As the bindings neared the being, however, they slowed, before slumping to a halt on the ground mere inches from where it stood.

He could easily make out its human form. A young boy, almost completely nude, and rather small and agile looking, strong yet compact. It was very thin, and looked to be injured, wounded in some way, yet it kept its arms at its side. Appearing relaxed yet giving off the distinct demeanor of the exact opposite. It still eyed him fiercely, gaze never wavering. It was not intimidated.

And he was confused.

_"Levicorpus" _he snarled angrily, enraged by the intruder's steady malevolence. The ensuing flash of white light pleased him, but he was dismayed when again, the being stood unaffected.

Curiosity may had allowed it to live, had he not been so righteously irate, "Kill it."  
A flurry of _Avada Kedavra's _and accompanying bright green jets of light found him blinking back at the creature with a look of wonderment. It had not moved, yet its eyes cast now in every direction, panic clear in its posture, hidden deep beneath its calm.

It shocked him once more – for what would not be the last time – when its eyes settled on him once more, and it unhinged its jaw with an audible _crack, _and after a moments hesitation, began to speak.

The language that poured from its lips was entirely unrecognizable to him, sounding like gibberish, and he the being stared at him for a long while before its face scrunched up in confusion and it began to speak once more.

"What the fuck are you?"

Voldemort blinked back his confusion. The humanoid creature had spoken to him, and in quite an unusual manner as well. His voice was a neglected rasp, and sounded as if it had been unused for a very long time, and its chest still heaved with the exertion of breathing. Yet... _'What am I?' _he thought, outraged, _'what was __**it?'**_

"What am _I?" _He hissed in response, true to thought, "what are _you?" _His men were silent around him, a strange hush settling over them all.

"I'm Edward Elric," the being said, rising up to the peak of its diminutive stature, sounding weak from exhaustion and yet strong with daunting boldness, "and _you?_

Are you Voldemort?"

* * *

**_A/N: _**Forgive me if there are too many mistakes. This wasn't edited and I typed it VERY quickly!

Erm...

_Sanguine: hopeful, or confident; bloody; blood-red; optimistic. _(Two different definitions that I enjoy for this, essentially.)


	17. Surmisal

_**Disclaimer**__**: **_I do not own Harry or Edward, or anyone they are involved with... Or anyone they aren't involved with but are in their stories, I suppose.

_**A**__**/**__**N**__**: **_Holy shit! It's... me! Updating? Yeah.

EDIT: fixed some small mistakes, and that stupid ass spacing issue I had in the first half with the italics. You're welcome those who haven't read it yet, for not having to deal with it. ;)

* * *

**RUE**

* * *

**PART ****TWO**

* * *

**Chapter**** 17**

**Surmisal**

* * *

_THREE__MONTHS__LATER_

* * *

Ron dreamed.

In his dream, he was standing before a large, dark tower, and no matter how hard he strained his eyes or craned his neck, he could not see the top.

The ground was smooth like marble and when he looked down he discovered that it just as well could be, for he could see nothing past his waist because of the sheer amount of fog that encompassed him.

Without warning he was sitting, his back hitting hard against the metal workings of a chair he had not known was behind him. He found it even more difficult to peer upward toward the top of the tower now than it had been before, so it was not long before he stopped attempting entirely. Rather, he fixed his sights upon a single point on the dark stone of the structure, a small circle looking very much like a pinprick of light lying just in his line of vision. So that he could stare for a very, very long time without much complaint or strain on his muscles. He felt terribly compelled to do so as well, and obliged rather willingly, wishing there were some way he could move his chair closer so that he could see it better.

As he watched, the small light began to wane and wax at intervals, pulsating as if it were fueled by a heartbeat that was silent to Ron's ears. As it moved it augmented, growing in size at an ever increasing rate, until it had reached such a large size that Ron feared it could grow no more without damaging the tower. He did not want to be crushed beneath it should it fall.

At this size Ron could better see what it was he was observing. While the light emanating from the orb was great, it did not permeate the thickness of the fog beneath it, nor did it alight the tower it was now practically hiding from Ron's immediate view. It seemed entirely self contained.

He found himself reaching out for it before he could even consider the action in his mind. In all honesty, it seemed a rather bad decision. But this was a dream, he knew that, and for some reason he had no conscious control over his actions. He felt as if he were watching himself from above, but somehow he still couldn't look up far enough to see the tower. It was all rather frustrating.

The moment his outstretched hand touched the growing light, a violent shiver passed through his body. He shut his eyes instantly, feeling a wash of icy chill sweeping through his bones, frosting over his skin. He felt as if his breath was the fog all about him, thick with steam, hot on cold. Teeth chattering and face quivering, he held his breath and counted to ten, gathering up what little courage he could find.

Then he counted to ten two more times.

He snapped his eyes wide open and levered his other arm in front of his face, it didn't even pass through his mind for one moment that he felt in control of himself again. It was dark everywhere, and the fog about him was swirling quickly, as if caught on some sort of gust, but overall, nothing had changed at all. Ron felt equal parts relieved and disappointed, his right arm still outstretched and in contact with the strange ball of light, still growing in size.

He shivered again. The cold. That was strange.

(_I __won__'__t __kill __anyone __for __you__, __if __that__'__s __what __you__'__re __getting __at__. __I__'__ll __do __your __shitty __dirty __work __but __I __won__'__t __kill __anyone__.)_

"What?" Ron asked the question without thought, hand still outstretched, head whipping around in confusion, "is someone there?"

There was only silence to answer him, and he frowned in thought. That voice was familiar, itching at the back of his mind, but he just couldn't place it. He huffed in exasperation, the answer was right there, just beyond his reach, but he just _couldn__'__t _remember. He _hated _this.

_(__I __can __be __civil__. __You __think __I __can__'__t __be __civil__?)_

"No." Ron replied absently, pouting, and only because he was absolutely positive that no one would hear his answer. A beat of silence passed again, and he patiently waited for another strange but familiar whisper. When none came, he wasn't too surprised. It just kind of figured that it wouldn't happen when he was waiting for it. A watched pot never boils, as his mum always said. Except it did.

He was supremely surprised, however, when he found himself standing once more, this time with his back against the tower, wedged into the slightest gap between the now gigantic light and the dark stone of the tower. He hadn't realized that they were two separate structures entirely until this moment, and he gasped, startled, at the brightness of the blinding illumination. His retinas burned with the effort of simply looking at it, but he found he could not look away, could not move at all, actually.

_(__Turn __around__, __back __here__. __You __see__?)_

_No__._ Ron thought again, but in perfect seriousness and a bit of distress this time around. _I __don__'__t __see__, __and __I __can__'__t __turn __around__. _

Something chilled and gritty landed atop his head, but still he could not move. More continued to fall, and it wasn't until it fell past his eyes that Ron realized it was soil. Dirty, ugly mud from deep beneath the ground was dropping from above him, but still he could not move. He was trapped on all sides, stone behind him, the strange light before him, above him some indescribable occurrence that was tossing more and more brown soil atop him by the second, but still he could not move. He would be buried soon, no doubt, buried alive and breathing, struggling to reach the world again. But still, he could not move.

An flood of fear washed through him, the cold that had never quite left intensifying tenfold. He struggled to move himself, horrified to find that he still couldn't so much as blink his eyelids. All his control was slipping away, and slowly but surely, he was filled with an indescribable urge to see what was on the other side of the tower. He _had_ to see. _But __he __couldn__'__t __move__!_ He wanted to scream, he wanted to hit something, he wanted to knock this tower over and crush that mysterious voice! He wanted to _wake __up__!_

The light was growing even faster than before, skirting the planes of his face now, enveloping his nose entirely. He didn't want to be inside of it. He _couldn__'__t_be. It was _too__bright__._

_(__WAKE __UP__!)_

* * *

Edward was now convinced that he had either royally fucked himself, or done himself a gigantic favor.

It was not a difficult feat to sense the _wrong _that was all around him. The air buzzed with a presence that made his heart ache and his skin tingle. It felt as if spiders were all about him, creeping across his epidermis with a multitude of spindly legs. Each new sight made him sick to his stomach, made him dizzy with fear, made him inherently angry. This was not the way of the world as it had been before his death, this was – and he was quite sure of this, thank you – the way it _truly _was.

Incompatible.

With himself, that is.

He was simply not a being that was supposed to exist in this realm. He was destined for other places, other people, other dimensions – as it were. He had no desire to even attempt to coexist with the smallest of rocks here in this awful place, let alone interact with the _people__. _His presence was ridden with contempt for everything around him, as he was constantly consumed with an intense dislike for every being, whether biotic or abiotic, and disgust filled his belly to the brim with a nauseous fervor he had no explanation for.

And he was changing.

Of all the things that were out of place, he was the worst. In his new, instinctual opinion, every single atom that surrounded him was positively _vile__, _but to each and every one of those atoms, he was an intruder. He could sense it constantly, the unveiled malicious threat for trespassing where he did not belong. He would not be surprised if the trees uprooted simply so that they would have an opportunity to squish him beneath their roots.

And he was changing.

Changing, yes, and while this made him obscene and vulgar to every inborn and natural soul of the world, ancient things that had stood the test of time (mountains were malicious, rivers sent him hard, ice-cold glares of fury, volcanoes would erupt on sight – and despite these all being guesses, he knew they were probably true) it appeared to have an adverse effect on the more... Novel souls of this planet.

Man.

Without a doubt.

The race of men.

Not only that, but he was regaining qualities that he could only assume belonged to him solely due to his Amestrian origin. He could feel his muscles strengthening every passing day, and his senses – that he hadn't even known were impaired – returning to him at much the same rate. Everything was becoming sharper, ingrained, clearer. He could hear with much greater ease, and smell in a similar fashion. Not that this was much of a blessing. This world was irrevocably dull. With a new consciousness of the brilliance of his own world (one that he theorized he _required _higher senses to inhabit in order to perceive at a normal quality) he was left aching for the emptiness that lay about him to be filled with _something. _The air smelled of filth and pollution, and every shade and tone was value grayer than it should have been. His increased senses only served to emphasize the despair of this world, and it was not an equivalent exchange that he would have willingly made.

"Will you please go take up space in some other room, perhaps your own private chambers would be more suitable to waste time within."

Edward scowled as his thoughts were interrupted, he was working hard to puzzle this all out. Why was it that he felt as if he belonged when he had first arrived here, but now he felt so strange and inexplicably out of place. Well, perhaps he hadn't felt as if he _belonged__, _but he had felt considerably less like the ground wanted to come alive and eat him every minute of every day. Then... He had been killed, and he'd made his way out of Alphonse's gate, and been... What exactly had he been then? Because he wasn't dead or there for a purpose had the plane where the gate was housed rejected him, sent him back to the nearest dimension, the one he was last at. And this time... What was different?

Well, Truth was a great deal less on his side, that was for sure. He'd actually had a sporting chance before, now, he wasn't so sure.

"I'm fine here," he called back, making the simple reply sound much more like some snide remark, "but thanks anyway."

He bet those lunatic wizards who'd shoved that shit down his throat would have a panic attack right now. To see him essentially talking back to that big, scary _thing_ they call The Dark Lord. Voldemort wasn't so scary though, he'd seen _far_ more terrifying things in his lifetime, and to be completely honest, he wasn't sure that Voldemort really was capable of attempting to kill him without magic. Which was a no-go, even more so now that he was magnetically charged the same way that this stupid world was and they kept pulling apart. Voldemort didn't mind though, he could deal with his attitude, and Edward knew that he would. As long as Voldemort had Ed on his side he would deal with anything the young man did, because he was an invaluable asset.

And that was that.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that, you _ridiculous_ creature," Voldemort hissed in response, "you're not immune to suffering. I would watch your attitude with me child."

"I wasn't even looking at you."

"You were, and you still are," the Dark Lord responded dryly, clearly not amused.

Edward snickered softly, "Well, if I was, I'm sorry. I should have realized my handsome face was too much to handle dead on."

"You're not humorous in the slightest, insufferable brat," Voldemort snapped, rising from his seat and striking an intimidating pose. The air crackled about him with sparking remnants of powerful dark energy. He was quite the picture of evil. In fact, Edward may have been slightly nervous, if he did not know that he was completely safe from harm. Voldemort reeked of betrayal and revenge, of envy and blatant malevolence, of death: always.

Ed frowned, he'd seen worse, "Well, don't stand up on account of me. I'll be fine by myself," he informed the dangerous wizard – in a wise-ass grumble – before setting off across the chamber.

He sorely wanted to point out the fact that the wizard had called _him_ forth for a meeting, and that Edward hanging around in the room for a while shouldn't have ruffled his feathers too much, but that would bring attention to a weakness of the Dark Lord's, and Edward figured that he had been pushing his luck about as much as he could as of late anyway. Voldemort hated being in his presence for long periods of time, yet required it as well. He knew that his strange presence was wearing down on the people here, in ways that neither he nor the Death Eaters quite understood.

But, he was working on it.

The dark underground passageways of Voldemort's moldy little crawlspace of a hideout made him increasingly uncomfortable with each passing day he was forced to reside here. Considering the information that he had just been provided, he should be happy.

_Ecstatic, _Edward thought glumly as he stepped carefully over what appeared to be a dead rodent of some sort on the floor. Yet there was not much in this world he found he could get excited over, certainly not a frivolous task like the one he was sure he would be assigned to. Unless he somehow managed to get information out of this endeavor, than he would very likely find no joy at all in it's completion. As it was, he had no idea what the hell the Ministry of Magic was, or why Voldemort had any inclination to believe Edward could be passed off as some sort of government official. However, he said he would work on it, which meant that some sort of preparations must be being made.

He sighed, running his left hand along the icy cold of the wall beside him, and noticing with a scowl that his glove came away a great deal more wet than he had expected. Despite the lanterns that were placed neatly every few yards upon the stone walls, he was chilled to the bone, and he could not stop the shiver that flew from his toes all the way up his spine, his body jerking outward in one strange motion. He gripped the port of his left leg with a wince, it was crazy cold down here, and he wasn't sure he was going to keep being okay with this god damn weather.

Edward made the decision quickly. He didn't want to go outside in the – freezing, chilling, _fuck_ – snow, but he didn't want to hide down here and rot away either. (To be perfectly honest, he'd had enough of rotting.) So, without further ado, he performed the quick transmutation to extend the forearm casing of his automail limb into a sharpened point, and strode purposefully into a tunnel to the side. Emerging into what he could only have guessed was some sort of old, underground train system, as there were tracks beside him, he made his way toward where he knew a Death Eater would be positioned, guarding their quiet presence stealthily.

It was without hesitation that he scraped the blade of his transmuted arm viciously against the wall beside the Death Eater's head, pulling a few sharp sparks from the abused stone. With a hiss and a barely concealed threat, he demanded that he be led outside.

He'd learned very quickly that the only way to get anything around here was to inspire fear.

He could do that.

* * *

The bar he found himself in was bleak and desolate, not unlike all else in this god forsaken world. His creepy – and thoroughly intimidated – escort had left him almost instantly when it had become clear that Edward intended to _'mingle with muggles', _as it were. A shallow sound of obvious dislike had been all that had informed him of the Death Eater's opinion on such an activity before he was gone. It wasn't like he really cared too much, as a matter of fact, he had planned to continue his evening alone, it just happened sooner than he'd expected. _Thank God._

Not that he knew where in the world he was (this being quite literal, as he had no clue what this world looked like as a whole yet) or how to get back into wherever the hell it was that Voldemort and his goonies were hiding out. It was hard enough to get out of there in the first place! He didn't know what the name of the city or town or village or whatever he was in, or the country or state or province or whatever else. He had no clue what the street his feet had carried him to was called, this time, however, he simply hadn't cared enough to look. He would most likely be on his own for a while, but he knew Voldemort wouldn't leave that be for an instant. Too frightened that Edward would leave his side and go crawling to the good guys with his significantly impressive talents, and unable to assert any real control over him, he would have no choice but to hunt him down and fetch him back.

His favorite new toy, and most hated new colleague.

"You look a little young to be out here boy," the bartender chatted at him from across the counter ten minutes after Ed had sat himself down atop one of the high, wooden stools, "this time of night and this side of town ain't no good for a little one."

Edward felt something inside his mind snap, a familiar feeling, and his fingers dug into the wood of his stool as his vision went red. He turned to face the man, eyes piercing the other man's gaze easily. The bartender was a broad man, all wide features and strong edges, burly muscles and wispy brown hair. His light blue eyes were a bit small for his face, and Edward pulled his lips back across his teeth, barring them in a feral sneer of acknowledgment without once averting his gaze from those beady blue eyes.

"Water," Ed spat, with a growl, "thanks."

The bartender, who, Ed noticed, without really granting the thought any real attention, was named Joseph, hastily turned to adhere to his new customer's request. All too eager suddenly, and Edward scowled his confusion, watching the man pensively. It wasn't just fear that had compelled the man to do what he bid, he'd gotten that odd look that he'd seen on a few people's faces as of late before he had turned away. What was that?

His water was placed _gently_ – of all the crazy things – before him. He felt guilty about his outburst for no apparent reason all of the sudden, and frustrated at his stupid, pointless regret. He shouldn't have really gave a shit at all, but still, looking up at the oddly expectant face of 'Joseph', Edward found himself grumbling a rather lack luster, _"Thanks, I guess," _to the man. Strangely enough, he looked rather pleased after that.

"Yeah," Joseph replied, before turning away to take a young woman's order that had just sat down a few seats away, "just tell me when you need another." There was no mention of his giant one-eighty in attitude, not that Ed really expected him to just _say _something about it … But still …

Ed glanced warily down at his drink, confused. With one eyes carefully trained on this _'Joseph' _fellow, he brought the glass up to his face. He sniffed at it inconspicuously, paranoia gently nipping at his heels, suspecting poison or _something_, because that had been entirely too odd of an exchange. Taking his cup of water under the lip of the high topped bar counter and thanking his lucky stars that the venue was mostly empty of patrons, he quickly touched his fingers together when both Joseph and the woman seemed otherwise engaged. A small flash of light later and he had transmuted his 'water' back into _water. _Just in case.

Safe water in hand and potentially dangerous bartender distracted at the other end of the bar, Edward settled into his stool. The atmosphere of the small business was dreary and dark, a cramped space littered with a few chairs and some too-small tables, hanging lamps employing impossibly dull bulbs and enveloped in dark red shades. The light was casting eerie shadows about the entire room, no doubt meant to inspire some sort of comfort in the customer's, but probably only succeeded in bringing out the exact opposite. All the wood was stained in a deep brown finish, and the music overhead was coming out fuzzy and filled with static. Not that he minded. He was content without the possibility that the bar might play some strange music of this world, with unfamiliar beats and structures, and occasionally, a rather annoying sound in general.

_So much is different here, _he thought, nostalgia overwhelming him as he ran his finger across the lip of his glass. Looking out the small, grimy window and seeing the street outside illuminated, for only the briefest of moments, by sleek, elongated automobiles that go incredibly fast at all times. He certainly didn't want to witness a car chase here. _But just barely different, _he amended, soaking up the shade of gray that the whole world had developed around him, _yet it makes it … _

With a sigh and a sip of his water, Edward stopped trying to think of it. He simply couldn't puzzle out how so little could be altered, and yet so _much_ could be painfully different. _Hopefully I won't be around long enough to figure out what the hell I mean by that._

"Hey,"

Ed started out of his thoughts, jumping almost all the way out of his seat, and somehow managing to knock his water over and all across the counter.

"Shit," he swore, his scowl deepening as he searched for napkins. It was just his luck.

"That's alright, Jo'll get that for ya. Won't you Jo?"

Turning around to face the stupid idiot that had startled him in the first place, Edward found himself nose to nose with the lady from the other side of the bar. She was giggling lightly, her arm moving forward to rest on his right shoulder, already attempting to steer his attention away from his mess and block any chance of it being caught again. Joseph was quick to respond, and Edward could see the man in his peripheral vision as he whipped out a cloth and set to work.

"That's right, sir," he agreed, nodding pleasantly, "I've got it. No trouble at all. Really."

Even more convinced than ever that someone here was trying to poison him, Edward frowned at the woman, shouldering her hand away from his right side before she could get a good feel of the hard metal beneath his sleeve. He watched, dismayed, as this only caused her to relocate to his upper thigh. Feeling entirely uncomfortable now, he sent his best glare up at her, finding her rapt attention much too foreign for his liking. Something was _way _off about all this.

"I'm Hannah," she cooed, seemingly unaffected by his look of great dislike. As he leaned away, she leaned forward, moving her hand further up his leg, and Ed's eyes darted all about in distress. '_What the hell?' _

"Hannah," Edward confirmed, attempting to look anywhere but her, "it's a pleasure to meet you, I'm sure, but I really have to get going."

"Are you sure?" Hannah asks with a sly smile, "you won't be too _lonely? _I can always keep you company. Where are you from anyway?"

_'God damn accent,' _Edward fumed, gritting his teeth and adamantly refusing any further advances. "I'm serious, Hannah. I'm not interested, so I'd appreciate it if you let me alone." He could feel the blush rising traitorously up to his cheeks even now, and he frowned deeply, a pout pulling across his lips. This was stupid. What in the world was she trying to get at? And what was the problem with everyone at this stupid pub?

He was out of there in a flash, the moment Hannah's hand started getting a little too close to a particular area of his anatomy he'd rather she not make herself familiar with right then. Especially not with Joseph the bipolar bartender watching so closely from across the bar. Feeling thoroughly violated and confused, he made his way through the streets of where ever the hell he was, actually half-hoping some Death Eater would find him and take him back. Sooner rather than later, preferably.

This encounter had only raised his suspicions on another problem he seemed to be having recently. It really was only a hypothesis, a barely tested theory. It was almost some sort of conspiracy, in thought, and even thinking of stupid things like this made him feel even more paranoid than he already felt, with the whole world turning against him and trying to reject him like some strange virus and all.

It wasn't until noon of the next day that he ran into someone who could lead him back to the depths of Voldemort's hide out. Honestly surprised that they'd come to him in broad daylight, and in a muggle part of town no less, he followed with interest. The Dark Lord must have had something rather important to impart to him, or else he would have let him wander at least long enough to get thoroughly lost. As long as he didn't get too far away.

"There is a task that I would like you to undertake," Voldemort tells him the moment that he steps foot into the chamber. Edward likes this about him, at the very least, he's very straight, "it will take a while."

"Do I have a _choice?" _Ed replies in a snarky voice that clearly implies that it's a rheotorical question. Even though, really, he _does_ have a choice, in a way. Though, it was in his best interest to pretend he didn't.

"Where have you been?"

"Don't worry about me, dear." Ed sneers, "I can handle myself. I will have you know though, my little trip put some thoughts into my head."

Voldemort eyed him almost warily, and Edward was actually a little put off that he had no quick come back for him. Though, his tone had clearly warranted a serious insinuation, so he couldn't blame the wizard for wondering what the hell he was getting on about. It was terrifically amusing to see this great _terrifying_ wizard gazing at him with what could very well be nervous aprehension. Edward was a wild card, one which he had no real control over. If Ed wanted to leave, it woudn't be difficult at all, and they both knew it.

"_Stand up, please_," Edward says, looking at Voldemort as boldly as he dares, a small smile twitching across his lips. He uses his nicest voice, saved only for rare occasions, and his eyes are wide and watching.

Both of them look a little surprised when Voldemort shows no hesitation in doing just that.

**_A/N: _**_I promise that the bar scene actually had a purpose? Does that sound good?_

**Surmisal: a message expressing an opinion based on incomplete evidence.**

_I'll start making longer chapters, I think. Get something actually happening. Also, uh... Update. That too. I hope. Hey, love you guys! If you're still there, haha!_


	18. Suffuse

Rue

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

Suffuse

* * *

_ONEMONTHAGO_

* * *

Snape's entrance into Dumbledore's office was surprising if not completely unpredicted. While Dumbledore often revelled in life's little shocks, this was not one of those times. And his unrest became even worse when words came out of the man's mouth.

"That boy is alive!"

The old Headmaster simply looked at the Professor for a few moments, completely unable to comprehend what he was saying. Then, after a few minutes. He finally decided on the appropriate way to respond.

"There are a lot of boys Severus. Which one are you talking about?"

"Edward Elric, the boy I watched die in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place" he hissed, his brows furrowing as he sat himself in a chair across from the desk. Dumbledore watched with amusement as he found a host of oddly shaped objects beneath his bottom, and was forced to stand back up and push them all sloppily to the floor to join the rest of the clutter, "he's alive. I saw him with my own two eyes, in fact, I talked to him, and he was oh-so happy about his situation."

Dumbledore could sense the sarcasm.

"And what kind of a situation would that be?"

"He's working under Voldemort, and he must be even more important than we imagined. Voldemort seems to have very little control over him, treating him almost like he is a guest rather than a servant. Someone that he has to stay in good terms with in order to keep around."

"_Lost his head, back from the dead_," the Sorting Hat sang from the shelf behind Dumbledore. The two men tried not to pay it's teasing any attention. The hat liked to make jokes when they were generally inappropriate.

"This is serious," Snape informed him, "I was discussing it with the others and they said that he literally just came right out of the ground. That he was buried, in a grave, and he crawled right out, naked and on the alert. Said they tried to attack him but all their magic just bounced right off, and the first thing he did was ask if he was looking at Voldemort."

"This is unusual. Do you know of any way this could be?" It was not very often that Dumbledore found himself completely stumped. This seemed quite impossible, "is it too much to think that maybe he was not entirely dead when we handed him over to the ministry?"

"Even then, they buried him! Which was not our intention, but I checked him, we all did. He was dead, and then was no trace of potion in him beside the Veritaserum that harmed him in the first place. There was no way for him to be faking it. And you weren't there, it was all very distressing. He was most definitely dead."

"I knew Cornelius wouldn't actually believe anything that I told him. It sounds crude, but maybe we should have kept the body for ourselves."

"That's not the craziest thing I've heard lately," Snape shook his head, "I can't believe it. He's back alright, and the first thing he did was tell me to 'Fuck off.' I don't think this is good for us. His blame goes beyond me, he's out there cursing the whole Order. He's dangerous, and very smart, and I think he has a personal vendetta for you Albus."

"Well, he's not the only one. Have you heard tell of the proposal for the new Educational Decree? Cornelius thinks he needs to have someone here to keep me in check. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be heading this school." He sighed, and then continued, "I think that I may have made a serious error in judgement. Clearly this Elric boy is, well, not just a boy. He may be a force to be reckoned with, and it may be impossible to get him on our side. We have to consider that we have just angered something that we have no way of controlling or predicting. I am trusting you to keep an eye on him, because information is the only form of defense we have."

The Professor of Potions sighed, putting his head in his hands, and Dumbledore felt for him. They were both under more stress than ever before, and it seemed things were spiralling out of control. Snape had Voldemort to worry about, but Dumbledore had Fudge as well. He was fighting a war on two fronts, and he would have to be careful if he was going to win them.

"_You two had better watch yourself with that boy," _the Sorting Hat declared, "_he's got you all in a tangle. He's everywhere at once, and everyone needs him. He's not meant to be here. Everything will change." _

Dumbledore knew from experience that whenever the hat decided to offer up free words of wisdom, nothing was going to turn out alright.

* * *

_TWOMONTHSLATER_

* * *

"What did you just do?"

Edward frowned, he honestly didn't know, but it was really, really cool.

He had felt it instantly, this adverse reaction he had to the world manifesting and reaching out. Somehow his strangeness had caused a phenomenon of sorts. He was like a germ in this world, somewhere he didn't belong, and he was infecting the system of the body piece by piece as he came into contact with them. He was like a virus, and it was quite possibly the best bit of news he had received in a long, long time.

"Answer me boy!" Voldemort insisted, advancing on him.

Edward was still reeling with the implications, "I'm a virus!" he exclaimed quietly, "an infection, don't you see? I'm a direct influence," I'm making your mind sick, he thought, I'm engineering my way into their minds just by being present. I'm an invasive species with unpropitious intentions.

A parasite.

I'm going to burrow my way into your brain.

He smiled.

Edward shook off his excitement, finally concerning himself with the Dark Lord that seethed in front of him. The look on his face for once actually made Edward feel a bit nervous. He took a step backward, shifting his weight so that his posture was more alert. He assumed that after this breach, it would not be out of the question to be defending himself in the near future.

The wizard was quickly advancing on him, wand raised in an intimidating gesture, as they both knew it wouldn't actually do him any good. Still, his intent was clear, murderous in fact, and Edward didn't like the smell of it. "Stop," he muttered, taking a step back, and watched as Voldemort's step faltered, then he overcame the command and returned to his approach with renewed vigor.

"Tell me how to do what you just did or I'll kill you." It was so matter of fact, and the next thing Edward knew his back was pressed against the wall, and Voldemort had his wand pressed hard into his larynx. He rasped for a moment, his throat protesting the offensive object, before his eyes became stern and his body tense with readiness. He wasn't going to attack, but he was going to be prepared to do what he had to. His alchemy was his ultimate weapon, and with that on his side, he considered himself untouchable.

The smell of death was overwhelming, and malice emanated from the wizard like a fog. He felt his eyes watering in from the sudden sharp pain in his neck, and from the slight lack of oxygen. Voldemort's mouth was so close he could see inside it, and he watched the back of his tongue move as he spoke, "I'm sick of your games boy," he hissed, and suddenly there was another hiss behind them, and Edward could just barely see over the wizard's shoulder to the huge snake that was approaching, "you'll tell me what I want to know or I'll kill you. I don't need magic to slit your throat."

Ah, the threat that Edward had been waiting for. Finally, he was proud of this Dark Lord. It was good to think outside of the box.

With a shiver he realized that Nagini had coiled around his feet at least twice, and he didn't feel comfortable at all with the snake touching him. He watched as the mouth in front of him pulled up into a sickening grin, "I can always feed you to Nagini."

That idea didn't sound attractive in the least, and he itched to get away from the snake. He could handle crazies with impossible delusions of grandeur, on a hunt for world domination, but snakes had always kind of creeped him out. They looked cool, but that was a from a distance, on the back of his coat, in architecture, or as a decorations on baby cribs sort of thing. They certainly didn't look cool as a wrapped around his neck biting his face repeatedly sort of thing.

"That's okay," he squeaked, shifting his head to the side so that the wand didn't make him sound like a little choking boy, he took a deep, easy breath, "I don't know how I did it. So I can't tell you."

His relief was short lived, as the wand was moved back to it's original position in mere moments, the angry gesture pushing it even further into his throat. At this point, he thought maybe Voldemort had fully intended to stab him. He really meant it though, and saying, hey, it's no big deal, it's just that I'm from another dimension that I suspect has entirely different universal laws of physics.. Well, that probably wasn't going to cut it. Even he knew it would sound ridiculous out loud.

Voldemort gave him a look that said he _wasn't _waiting patiently and pressed the point a little bit further into his flesh. Nagini wrapped another coil around his leg, tightening her hold on him. This was too much, and the moment she opened her mouth with a hiss and he saw those fangs, he decided that he wasn't going to deal with it anymore.

With a clap of his hands he placed his palms on the wall behind him, sparks of electric blue danced down the wall and across the floor, and Voldemort's insistent grip on his wand slackened for a moment as his eyes traveled along with the light. In another second, two large pillars of stone behind the wizard rose up out of the ground. The first wrapped around Voldemort like a hand, and the other hit his hand hard, knocking the wand from his grip, and then crumbled and fell on the surprised Nagini, effectively pinning her where she was and making her all the more angry. He sensed more than felt her viciously bite at his leg, luckily she had been on his left side when he had started the transmutation. He kicked his leg outward, and the stretch was too much for her and she had to release her maw, allowing him to escape.

The Dark Lord's face was enraged, but also astonished. He looked dumbfounded, and almost a little excited, in a way. Edward wasn't sure what he should call the expression that was on the wizard's face, but it probably didn't bode well. The emotions eventually manifested into a sort of frustrated anger and he hissed out commands to remove him immediately, and Edward thought that he would probably leave him there forever and leave if he didn't need his help, and if three or four Death Eaters weren't rapidly approaching them.

"I wouldn't make threats to someone that you don't fully understand," Edward admonished, "they might be more dangerous that you think."

Voldemort smirked, "I guess I underestimated you," he was still pulling his body forward, trying to reach for his wand. Edward figured it was just a natural wizard reaction to be drawn to their stupid stick, even when all their efforts were clearly for naught, "I've never seen anything like that, but I've heard legends about it before. Or at least something of the sort. I see now what you are, but I don't know why you've come to me. If you let me down, we can talk about this,"

Edward cocked his head in confusion. Voldemort had heard about alchemy? Suddenly this seemed more promising than ever before. Maybe the wizard made him sick, and had questionable morals, but if he knew something about alchemy, then he would be even more of an asset in his quest of finding his answer, "What do you know about alchemy?" Edward demanded, as the first of the Death Eater's reached them. It was one whose name he had never bothered to learn, and he let the man grab his arms and restrain him. It wouldn't last, both he and Voldemort now knew that he would need his hands to release him.

"Release him!" Voldemort predictably hollered at the man, who seemed more confused than ever before, and that was saying something when it came to some of the Death Eaters. "And let him release me,"

"Why should I?" Edward muttered, crossing his arms after readjusting himself, "maybe I'll just sit by and watch your lackeys chisel you out of there,"

Voldemort's horrible face screwed up in what might have looked like thought, but it was a horrible display for anyone who had an idea. A day didn't go by that Edward didn't wish he had a little bit more nose, at least so he would be easier to look at. The Dark Lord craned his neck sideways, hissing at the Death Eater, "get me out with magic. Right now."

The other Death Eater had arrived at this point, and was actually first to act. Edward sort of, oddly, caught on to what Voldemort might be thinking. At least he thought maybe that was what was happening, and he decided to step back a few feet and watch.

"_Finite Incantatem!"_

"_Reducto," _

"_Deletrius!" _

The Death Eaters were silent, watching as their spells simply did nothing to the rock that was imprisoning their leader. They were stupefied, and Edward, he was excited. And apparently, he wasn't the only one.

Even if Edward lived to be a hundred (which was a complete impossibility) he swore that he would never see anything more strange than the look of discovery, and maybe even excitement, upon the strange creature that was Voldemort's face. It almost made him want to leave and go strangle himself for a few hours. It was kind of disgusting.

More so than usual.

"Magic doesn't work on things that you create with alchemy either," Voldemort muttered, and the only thing Edward could think was that this was it. He had finally heard tell of alchemy in this world. He had picked the right freak to follow around.

So with a clap of his hands, he smoothed out his transmutation, and watched as Voldemort's servants caught him and made sure he stayed on his feet. He shook them off almost immediately, and they looked terrified. Edward was surprised that they had even touched him, but they could probably imagine the punishment if they had let their leader fall to the ground. Either way it was a bit lose-lose, plus it wasn't like they had any idea what was going on.

Poor monkeys.

Voldemort looked him right in the eyes, and Edward set his face in a deep scowl, crossing his arms even tighter. He wouldn't show any fear of this creature. He didn't feel any in the first place.

"This is it," Voldemort sneered, even when he was happy it seemed his expressions were still atrocious, "you're the ultimate weapon. How can that boy stand up to me when I have you? My plan can advance a million times quicker. We'll have the world in moments, Edward."

"I won't kill anyone for you, if that's what you're getting at. I'll do your shitty dirty work but I won't kill anyone," Edward scowled, "and only if you tell me what you know about alchemy, and how I can figure out more,"

"This isn't child's play Edward, you might have to get your hands dirty,"

"Then I'll leave, and I'll find another way,"

"Don't think I won't kill you,"

"Don't think I won't kill _you,"_

Voldemort may not realize it, but despite his apparent knowledge of alchemy, his entire attitude about Edward had revealed that he didn't know as much as he thought. That Edward's alchemy was completely new to him, and that he had no idea how to handle it.

But Edward had to be careful. Voldemort wasn't stupid, he was extremely intelligent and conniving in fact, and the whole idea that he might not realize he had done something was preposterous. For all Edward knew, this could be some kind of an act. He'd leave now if he knew that that wasn't what Voldemort wanted him to do, but he couldn't be sure. Anyway, he didn't care for the confusion of the Muggle world, he was much more comfortable surrounded by the insane raving of megalomaniacs vying for world domination. That was pretty much what his whole life had been like. He didn't want to move out of his comfort zone now, what was the point?

The only real way to find out what he needed to know was to be right in the thick of it. That was how it always had been. The crazier things were, the more likely he'd be slapped right in the face with the truth.

So what if he got a few bruises along the way?

Edward had no idea how this situation had went from a complete breach of order, and a consequential burst of murderous anger from an extremely powerful wizard, to a sudden eureka moment between two people plotting two very different schemes. He was sure that he was going to be removed from the Dark Lord's order, probably in a violent way, that involved fighting for his life. However, he was suddenly the cream of the crop, and Voldemort, rather than be mad about his attack, was almost praising him for his use of alchemy. It was very confusing.

But he could roll with the punches.

"I'm not going to pretend to understand you Edward Elric," Voldemort moved towards his chair once more, "I'm not even go to pretend that I know what you are,"

"I feel the same way about you dear,"

He looked a little upset that he'd been interrupted, "but I can't afford to lose you, if we're being honest. On my side, you only ensure my victory, on another's side, you could be a barrier that would take years to conquer. I don't have that kind of time."

"I wouldn't want to be a burden,"

"I really would like it if you got out of my sight. You've given me so many reasons to want to kill you within the last hour, I think it's a talent of yours."

Edward was silent.

"Remember when I said I had a task for you to undertake? I'd like you to sit still and listen to what I have to say now, if you'd be so kind."

It sounded less like a request and more like a snake was dragging it's fangs across Edward's ear drum.

* * *

Mustang had sent him on plenty of pointless, aggravating, and just plain ridiculous missions during his time in the military. But this…

Well, this was pushing it.

Anything, he would literally have rather done anything else, as long as he didn't have to spend another second with this harpy. Damn it all, he might even consider taking back his no kill rule, or maybe just killing Voldemort before he could even send him on this stupid assignment. Or even better, just kill her, because that would give him the most satisfaction.

As far as diplomacy goes, he was fairly sure that if any other living, breathing human being had to be in the presence of Dolores Umbridge, then they would simply declare war on Magical England and be done with it.

Every other country in the world would probably join in. Maybe even London. War on Umbridge.

"You look a little young to be a government official."

At first Edward thought she meant it as an accusation, but a second glance at her stupid pitbull face told him that it was not so. He was famous enough in Amestris to recognize flirting from all sorts of women, even if it was a horribly phrased backwards way of going about it.

He felt like his mouth was full of ashes, "I am an ambassador," or maybe fire, "_miss_, and I assure you I am qualified. We don't have to be ancient, just good at keeping the peace." He almost choked on his next words, and wasn't sure if he was going to be able to maintain his cover without being sick every five minutes, "I'm sure a fine woman like yourself would understand the importance of something like that?"

"Oh yes, keeping the peace and all that," she waved her hand dismissively through the air. Edward was sure she had her own ways of 'keeping the peace', and they were all probably just as ugly as she was. Or maybe as ugly as whoever it was that dressed her in the morning. Either one, "of course I recognize the importance, it's just that I haven't been properly introduced to you I'm sure."

"Of course."

"I'm Dolores," she smiled, "Dolores Umbridge that is, and I am going to be traveling to Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry this school year. The Ministry is currently considering the Educational Decree Number Twenty-Two, which will enable the Minister to appoint new professors providing that one cannot be found. As soon as the decree is passed I will be serving as their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," her smile got wider, and it looked like her face might crack, or melt, "I understand you'll be accompanying me?"

It was sick how they already had it all figured out. The Decree wasn't even passed yet, and she practically had her bags packed. For all he knew, she really did.

"My country is interested in learned how magic is taught here in London," Edward could wax poetic when it came to official, he had been listening to military bullshit for years, "Hogwarts is a very prestigious school, and affiliating ourselves with them would be beneficial for us both. Perhaps an exchange of knowledge about alchemy would be useful."

"Not as prestigious as you'd think," Umbridge muttered, turning in her chair and playing with an empty tea cup that sat lonely on her black desk, "the Headmaster is a nut. He's completely hell bent on destroying all of the order we've established under the Ministry."

"Dumbledore," Edward frowned, "I've met him actually, and he seems just as crazy as you say." He was being honest now, at least they could agree on something, "A complete lunatic."

She perked up even more at this, and he almost wished that he hadn't said anything at all, "A man of reason!" she giggled, and it was like someone had ran their nails across a chalkboard, never had there been a more disgustingly sweet laugh, "we'll have to give him hell when we go, yes?"

"I think maybe we should stick to business, Dolores." Edward resisted the urge to smile, if he could catch her in her admiration of him this easily, then he could gain respect simply by seeming like he was the wiser and more thoughtful of the two. Acting like an adult even when prompted to have a younger perspective would set him apart, earn him distance and discourage snooping. He wanted to appear strict.

Honestly, he was. He might not like to appeal to others rules. But he was fairly strict in his own.

This might be a weird time for it to show.

But nothing about this situation was normal in the first place.

Magic. Good Lord, his life was ridiculous.

"Also," she interrupted his thoughts, "I think you'd find more luck with learners here in the ministry. I'm sure everyone would be happy to learn how to gain immortality," he was fairly certain she was patronising him, but at the same time attempting to convey an actual point. She didn't want the children at Hogwart's learning anything that might assist them in helping Dumbledore gain control of the ministry. She was just as paranoid as the Minister he had spoke to before.

"Yes, well, I'll take my chances. And I don't mean to disappoint, but I don't think I'll be teaching anyone the secrets to immortality," he smiled deviously and lathered on the charm, thinking in his head only about how backwards all of this was, "although I doubt a lady like you really need it."

Umbridge blushed, honest to god, and despite his disgust, he was a little proud of his deception.

I'd like to thank my horrible childhood. I owe my acting skills to you. Thank you for all the help and support with my career. I'll see you when I get home.

He had been sent here by Voldemort under the impression that he would be working with a government official. Not a freaky, evil little girl in a grown ups body, wearing pink sweaters and looking like she wanted to eat him. This was gross.

The Minister, Fudge - which was a horrid name for anyone important, but seemed to be a trend here - had been his first stop. The story was that he was a diplomat sent from Egypt, where apparently the very first recordings of magic were found, and that he came representing the Egyptian Centre for Alchemical Studies. Imagine that.

He had looked at a world map, and he most certainly would have been traveling there instead if he didn't think it would take far too long, be too dangerous, and that it could ultimately be too pointless. From what he had learned about alchemy in this world so far it appeared that it was a completely different form of the art. Or, at least, no one really knew enough about it to do much of anything with it. The only things he had been able to find were legends at best, and they mostly seemed to concern acts that were generally illegal or frowned upon back in Amestris. It wasn't really much to go on.

It seemed that Voldemort had enough influence in Egypt that their story would be able to ring true if anyone bothered to check, though he doubted that they would. Fudge seemed unconcerned with his intentions or his being here at all. He was vaguely worried about him starting a war or attempting to overthrow his power or whatnot when they first met, but Edward had come to see that that was just a general vibe that he gave off. The idea was that he would be shown to one of their most important wizarding landmarks, their school in Scotland, and that he could consider integrating alchemy into their curriculum in exchange for a lesson taught there. Such as classes on Dark Arts, which were only taught in Hogwarts and a school that they called Durmstrang.

Edward didn't like the names here.

What it really seemed to be though was a way of putting a problem in Dumbledore's lap rather than his own. Fudge was almost overeager to make Edward someone else's burden. He didn't want to deal with the responsibility probably. Or, you know, do his job.

All in all, it seemed way too easy to get himself in there, but he supposed that came with the evil dark lord of all stuff. There were even Death Eaters stationed within the ministry he was told he could go to to report or to receive help. It was fun to think about how Fudge would probably shit himself if he knew about all the infiltration and power grabbing that was actually happening. Not just the stuff he seemed to be hallucinating about.

Although this quest of sorts may be the bane of his existence. He had already ran into one of the people who had had a hand in his death before, and that hadn't worked out perfectly. He suspected foul play, but then again, he always did.

He wasn't looking forward to seeing all those people again. His time away from lunatics who kept trying to get under his skin had been pretty nice. He liked it better when the crazy people just left him to his own devices.

It was going to be fun though. To suddenly appear out of nowhere. Hey, it's me, back from the dead! He was going to have a good time thinking of ways to approach it. He could studiously ignore them and pretend it never happened, act like they were crazy, he could never speak to them ever out of genuine anger… He could do all sorts of things. But flashy entrances were always his thing, and he couldn't deny the fact that he was actually a little bit excited for it. What a shocker, this would be the talk of the ages.

Sometimes he made himself laugh.

And if they don't like it, well...

It wasn't like he cared.

* * *

Harry sat in his seat at the sorting ceremony, and noticed one thing that he had never expected to see.

"Ron," he whispered, grabbing his friends shoulder with urgency, "Hermione. Look,"

And they looked.

* * *

"_...though condemned I am to split you _

_still I worry that it's wrong, _

_though I must fulfill my duty _

_and must quarter every year _

_still I wonder whether sorting _

_may not bring the end I fear. _

_Oh, know the perils, read the signs, _

_the warning history shows, _

_for our __Hogwarts__ is in danger _

_from external, deadly foes _

_and we must unite inside her _

_or we'll crumble from within _

_I have told you, I have warned you... _

_let the Sorting now begin."_


	19. Fester

_Sorry this chapter isn't longer. I'm actually attempting not to vanish again so whatever I can get out counts I suppose! I know some of you are confused, and if you're REALLY confused, go ahead and message me. I'm a confusing writer, I'm aware, so what might make sense to me might make zero sense to you, and I'm perfectly willing to explain it to you and hear what might make it more conceivable, and to just talk to you in general._

_If anyone has a tumblr also, I've been holed up there lately, reblogging like a lunatic and art-ing, and if I fall behind again, you're welcome to spam the hell out of me there to get me back on track. I'll definitely notice._

_My name on there is wemustneverever, I believe. _

_And thanks so much for everyone who is still actually reading this, I understand that it's been forever, and I actually didn't even want to continue with it. But then I saw all your fantastic reviews and saw how they had persevered even for the time that I was gone, and that is absolutely amazing. So I can't leave you guys hanging._

_I have to remember how I had always meant for this story to end though! It's been too long and I've forgotten. EEEEEh, maybe I'll just make up a new ending! It'll be okay. Here's to hoping I make it to the end at all! Bravo you guys, you are the fire in my hot air balloon~_

* * *

Rue

Chapter Nineteen

* * *

Fester

* * *

He wasn't even mad anymore.

Well, maybe he was still a little mad.

But not at those kids.

Well, maybe a little.

But not at them personally.

Well… Maybe…

Either way, he couldn't help but to feel some satisfaction when Harry Potter's eyes caught his presence and the boy immediately looked as if he had seen a ghost. He was truly terrified, and it was truly hilarious.

He considered sticking his tongue out at the poor kid, but he wasn't sure if that was too obnoxious or not obnoxious enough. How one was to act after their alleged resurrection from the dead was a tough thing to work out, he was pretty sure you should make a scene after something that important, but things weren't the same anymore. On top of that, he was undercover or something along those lines, and fuck was that going to be boring.

As he watched, Harry eventually got over his initial shock and turned to his friends, words creeping slowly and cautiously from his mouth. Edward looked toward the other two, laughing and carefree, completely unprepared to know that he continued to exist in this world, and remembered his short time with the threesome. His time spent with Harry had ignited a spark within him that had seemed lost. Harry Potter's apparent predicament - and his stubborn selfishness - had made him very angry and spiteful, but also reminded him of his own plight, and his own obdurate attitude. It may have seemed like all was lost, but Edward was stubborn too, and he had sacrificed more than this "Boy Who Lived". He may hate Harry, but that was mostly because of how much he reminded Edward of himself.

There was no one he hated more than that.

His time with Hermione was something of a completely different nature, something foreign. He'd even have to say they had been… Friends, perhaps. He and Ron may have even been in their own way too. He felt silly thinking about it at all, but he had found relief and comfort with the children, a common interest. And the combination of this alien and young camaraderie with the reminder of his sacrifice had broke him out of the depression he was at risk of sinking into. Even now he couldn't believe how little he had tried. Every moment he had accepted his fate was a moment Alphonse had to endure his mistake. Every moment was another wasted breath. Another second stolen from the life of the one person he loved with all of his soul.

He'd sacrifice his life in a moment if it had any worth.

He hated this.

His mood turned sour, he looked away from the trio, no longer interested in their stupid concern. They would see him and they would act however they acted, and if for some reason it compromised his plan, he would have to set it straight.

* * *

The sorting ceremony proceeded without event, besides the general distaste at Umbridge and Edward's arrival at the school and the Sorting Hat's ominous song. Edward watched as the strange going on's and all around ridiculousness happened around him, not responding to anyone that chanced conversation.

* * *

Harry stared at Edward, watching his every move, and trying hard not to look away when the man turned his gaze on him in return. It was strange how the simple change of scenery and attitude had altered Edward's entire appearance turn around completely. When they had first met he had looked like a young boy, frail and swamped in his borrowed sweater that was two sizes too big for him. Even when he had first spoken, as he became harsh and intimidating as he fought the man in the alley, he had seemed older, and harsher, but not like this. Now, his face had changed, his entire attitude, and with the change he seemed to grow, to reach as far as the ceiling and beyond. He seemed huge, adult, a different person. He was alive again but different. How had this happened? Was it even the same person really? Or had he really been replaced?

"He looks like a different person," Ron vocalized his thoughts on the matter, and Harry nodded in agreement. Hermione didn't respond, she seemed conflicted, unsure of what to think about what was happening right now, in this room.

And no one else knew.

"How can Dumbledore not say anything to him? Does he know, is he a part of this?" Ron murmured, looking to Harry for the answer.

Harry didn't have the answer.

"I don't know…" he responded, "I have no idea."

Once more the piercing gold eyes of the boy who had stayed with them for the summer fell upon them, but his face revealed nothing. If anything his expression became more apathetic, his mouth relaxed and straight, his jaw held easy and his hands lying neatly upon the table in front of him, one reaching for his goblet. The only thing that revealed he was anything but disinterested was the intensity of his stare, Harry felt like it was boring a hole into his skull, and he shut his eyes without thinking. A few moments of darkness and he felt less overwhelmed, more in control, and could open them again.

It was alarming when he opened them again only to see that those golden eyes had turned sinisterly smug in the seconds he had stopped looking. Harry felt extremely uncomfortable.

Everything about this unsettling beginning of the year screamed that it would be another year of misadventures. This time, however, they seemed twice as serious. Cedric had died last year, but he hadn't risen from the grave. Things from last year would haunt him forever, but this was different, this was supernatural, something that shouldn't be occurring even in a world of magic. This was wrong.

What was this?

* * *

Yes, the sorting ceremony proceeded without event, except for the general distaste and the ominous warnings and the fact that there was a man back from the dead sitting at the high front table. But only a few of the people in the Great Hall knew of this fact, and while it haunted them - all except Edward, being the man in question - it didn't phase the other students at all. But as the children all filed out of the hall, the new students screaming and yelling and chattering in excitement and confusion, and the teachers followed after them to try to herd them into their proper places, and the older students quickly made their own way to their dormitories, attempting to ignore the rush, there was one disturbance that no one but Dumbledore had seen. And as presence of the man back from the dead turned it's back and prepared to make it's way from the room, Dumbledore watched with quiet dread, as a candle swayed. There, in the ceiling of the Great Hall, hardly noticeable, a single candle swayed, and as he watched, without warning, it plummeted from the sky, hitting the ground with a wet smack, the wax crumbling and the flame instantly extinguished.

"...or we'll crumble from within," he whispered, looking long and hard at the candle. his shock a heavy ball in the pit of his stomach. He had dealt with all the bad omens of the coming year with grace, but this, this he could not fathom. This was different.


End file.
